My husband may beg to differ. He comes from the generation that knows brussels sprouts ashose blocks of frozen goodness*, thawed, heated, and covered in Velveeta. Not at all like what I found at the Market today — fresh,
tender, firm, and ready to be sauteed with pears and brown butter, or with pancetta and garlic and balsamic.
(* I couldn’t find a single picture of the brussels sprouts of our youth, on Google OR Bing! Thank goodness for that.)
I snagged more Rainbeau Ridge Goat Cheese for my winter stash, and hit the BuddhaPesto stand — great texture, color, flavor, and I love the name.
Some days I think I have the best life — got to be a judge at the annual Apple Pie contest at the above-named market. The pies were beautiful: shiny sugar crusts, short crusts, double-crusts, crumb topped, latticed. The apples were sweet, tart, firm, spiced, spiked, paired with raisins and nuts; sliced thin and chunked. There was even a tarte tatin. Great efforts — sure wish everyone could have won.
The Stats: Number of pies tasted: 18. How many I could have fit in my big-a**ed purse: 3. Number of fellow native Midwesterners I met at the vegetable stand: 1. What my husband said when he saw the Brussels Sprouts: gah.