Last week, I wrote about the pasta that finally taught me how to shop at the farmers market. What I didn’t mention was that I ate the first quarter of my bowl standing up, at the bar top between my kitchen and the little alcove where our two-person table sits. I had simply stopped there. The cornbread crumbs were crisp, the chèvre was creamy, the squash had gone sweet and spicy and jammy after some time over low heat, and together they briefly became more interesting than wherever I had been headed.
I don’t want to overstate the revelation. I know what happens when you apply butter and patience to good vegetables. Still, that particular bit of alchemy never gets old to me. Especially when I realized that what was in the bowl had begun as a five-item farmers market haul, helped along by a few things I already had at home.
