Our produce deliveries since October have given me a serious workout. Do you know how much a box of celeriac weighs? Well, it is a lot lighter when I get through with it, those bulbous root vegetables rolling away from me while I heave the box onto our loading counter.
Anyone who has tried to faithfully eat local foods can attest to this- February in Washington means you’ve been eating root vegetables for four months. The thought of those first tender shoots of wild asparagus appear as an oasis on the horizon. But the first vegetables of the season are still two months away, and those beets promise to hang in there as long as you are willing.
For the record, I am not claiming to be a locavore. In August, with the exception of my South American coffee, spices, and Italian olive oil (and I haven’t been able to source any local gin), I eat mostly local and seasonal foods. I would be a fool not to. But I am a bit of a fair weather locavore, which makes me feel like I should not use the term for just part of the year. Granted, I probably eat more carrots, celeriac, beets, turnips, parsnips, and onions in the winter than anyone I know. It is easy because more than half of what I eat is at work, and that is what we have around. Local lentils and beans are added to the mix, along with some plums, apricots, and cherries that we preserved in the summer. With that kind of base, I am off to a good start.
Right around this time of year, however, I start to become desperate. I want a banana. Now, if I were a real locavore, I would only eat bananas when on exotic vacations (incentive enough, really). Eyeing the pyramid of bananas at the grocery store like a candy display, I grab a handle and hide it in my basket. To make myself feel better, I select the organic variety. I convince myself that the sticker signifies that they sailed here from Hawaii under wind power, instead of in a cargo liner followed by an eighteen wheeler. In case my daydream of sustainable banana travel doesn’t convince me, I reinforce it by telling myself that at least it isn’t a frozen pizza. And it has a compostable package.
Back to the season at hand. Last night an order came in with some extra words scrawled across the bottom in all capital letters. “NO BEETS!” This is definitely not an uncommon request, with an increase in frequency during the gray of winter. So we scan through their order, replacing roasted beets with braised cabbage or roasted parsnips, making a mental note to omit the beet coulis from the beef main. Ten minutes after this order came in, another ticket was pushed across the pass, again with words scrawled along the bottom. But this time it was different, it read “LOVES BEETS!”. I was overjoyed. After conferring with my line partner, we decided to put together a trio of beets on one course, an homage to beets if you will. It showcased everything from a beet and celeriac terrine wrapped in beet greens to beet consomme with a raviolo made with beet slices instead of pasta dough. We had most of these items on hand, with the season being what it is. But all lined up, with pickled beets arranged in a nest beneath herbed goat cheese, even beet coulis dragged into heart shapes (they were celebrating a late Valentine’s Day), this was a beet feast for the masses. Or not the masses, really. More of a feast for a few beet lovers out there.
So last night I was reminded to embrace the season. Go all in. Sink your lifeboats. Eat beets until you pee magenta.
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