02007 vintage cold storage apples have seen their days. Please don’t make me eat another one, with their puckering skins and flesh turned to meal. A monsu from the last bunch I bought at the Morningside greenmarket’s been sitting on my counter top for weeks. A round black bruise has been growing on one side of it. There’s a tiny pin prick at the center of the black. So, obviously someone’s in residence. Today, the monsu and its’ residents migrated to my balcony where they will live out the remainder of their days.

I cannot eat anymore grapefruit either. I did finish off the last bag but the flesh was dull and not very sweet or juicy. The season for citrus and cold storage fruit has officially ended.

While the wintry-mixed season finally sur-endured some weeks ago, bringing supple skin days and the return to flip flops and sandals, the most brutal season of the calendar has arrived. Now is the winter of this semi-fruitarian’s discontent. I might as well move to Antarctica. There won’t be any luscious, fresh, juicy fruit until June when Northeastern strawberries arrive. In all honesty, I’ve fallen out of love. The wait is on for my true love and fountain of youth, blueberries, who return to me in mid July.

But in a deluded and desirous hope of finding non-cold storage fruit, I headed to the Union Square greenmarket this afternoon. Not lucky there. Instead, I gathered victuals for a fine prandium fit for the locavore set—smoked brook trout, radish sprouts, nasturtiums (a close second to blueberries in the pantheon of my food obsessions), pretzels, and apple cider. Ok. When I abandon the fruit form of apples and citrus, will resort to the juice and cider form for a fix. Today I’ve imbibed about 48 ounces worth.

The trip to the greenmarket was interesting on another note. I ran into M, a colleague from last term’s Food Sociology. She earned a plum opportunity to work as TA this term with my favourite provocateur of the corn—Marion Nestle. She’s not even getting her PhD in our program. But she’s too cool and interesting a person, so I hold no grudge. I’m not a policy or regulations wonk. Those Marion shooting stars set when she ‘schooled me in nutrition’ one night after class, and when I started finding my voice, which happened to be in disagreement to her stance on those golden GM widgets. But I actually don’t mind the moniker another colleague dubbed me—the girl who debated Marion Nestle. I digress. But, twist my arm. M suggests I come back Friday. Another farms’ cold storage apples are still edible. Sure.

At the nasturtium’s tent, the fella farmer asked if I’m from the land o’.. The wheels turned quick on the question, and on response—Yeah—even quicker. Then he motioned to the guy next to him. I hadn’t seen KC in about five years. Last time was at a barbeque or party up in hippy hades ville. The plebian hades ville we survived, has graduated a respectable roster of anarchists and freaks. He’s an artist working somewhere out in Brooklyn, has an installation up at MASS MoCa this year, has been working the greenmarket nearly two years, and has cast about and squatted allover pebble earth. I’ve never worn my anarchist on my sleeve like KC. Years ago, I remember him asking me at dinner if I was a republican—You seem like you’re a conservative republican. I think he was one of the folks up there perpetuating that particular lie about me; there’s been plenty of those. I suppose my aesthetic has pegged me a lot of things, but not really ever who I am. Pigeonholing is a head knocking curse up breezy mont blueberry.

No lie. My shuffling ipod played Bad Reputation when I walked away. This was an anthem I’d listen to with a pollywog who went off to become a rock star of another sort. I still wonder if hidden somewhere inside there’s still a little skate betty anarchist. It wouldn’t mean she’d turn into a frakk up if she ever let her out to play. And yes, it’s all related, but not tapping that here either.

Buen provecho et bon nuit..

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