They said impossible. Concord grapes in December—indeed.

On rainy Sundays, some Gotham greenmarket farmers do not get out early. I was heartbroken last week when my Concord man was not there. But seams I missed him by just minutes; he was camped out in Jersey watching weather and avoiding slippery roads. What a nasty day it was. How did I make it to the market before Don?! A week without him was not pleasant. So I bought the nine inch Meredith’s cherry pie to console. Mmkay. Some pomegranates. Apples and Cabots as usual.

Don and Lay both made it down from Keuka Lake this Sunday. Their Wager farms is in Penn Yan. Check the map; it’s way up north and one over from Seneca, two hops from Cayuga. They put out quart baskets with big bosomy mounds of their delectables. Juicy and the skins are a good bite. I bought two quarts and they let me keep the green baskets. Don said if my fridge is cold enough they might be eat-able when I get back in a couple weeks. Lay said put them in a bowl—not the green basket or the bag. One quart sits at the back of the fridge propped on four Guinness cans. Fingers crossed they don’t wind up in the archive. The other quart is nearly gone already. Yes, the girl is up to her old ways again. Elle est une petite cochone.

So folks. Don and Lay from Wager farms drive all the way down to our fair city to sell their juicy fruity concord grapes and concord grape juice. And they tell me they may be here next Sunday since their grapes are holding up nicely. I vouch for the claim. But I won’t be here. If you are, go there and buy their grapes. They’re at the greenmarket on 114th and Broadway, for one, maybe two more Sundays. But they are running out of grapes. Then it’s another long haul until we meat again next September.

Time to place the honeybell order.

Bon nuit

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