West Chester Dish

“Yes, you can go, but you need to be back in 45 minutes. And bring back a baguette. Actually, make that two baguettes.”

“Wheat or white?” I asked the father of the little boy next door.

“Hmmm. One wheat and one white,” he replied and slipped his son a $10 bill. And with that we were off.

I headed down the alley towards the West Chester Grower’s Market with my young neighbor who is so mature I joke that he’s like a 40-year-old stuck a nine-year-old body. “So, I never know, do I have to hold your hand when we cross the street? Sometimes I forget how old you are because I can have normal conversations with you.”

“Nah, you don’t have to hold my hand; it’s okay.” He replied. But I still positioned myself between him and the traffic to my left just to make sure.

As we walked the eight or so blocks toward the market we discussed various things. You know, typical little boy stuff like… our favorite sushi, grass-fed, hormone-free lamb and other food-related topics.

We made a quick stop at Sprazzo for a cup o’ joe (don’t worry, just for me), where he held the door for me and began critiquing my lasagna-making skills. “Duh, Mary. You shouldn’t use meat in it; you should use pesto.”

As we rounded the last corner to the market I asked if he remembered the order from his father. Repeating “one wheat and one white baguette” he made a beeline for the Big Sky Bread booth. We waited our turn as he told me to “go check out the other booths” he was “fine getting the loaves himself.” I stepped back to give him space but still keep a protective eye on him.

I watched as he called out to the man behind the booth for his order. Just as I was thinking to myself how grown-up this child was, he reached for the sharp knife next to the sample loaf to cut a slice for himself to taste. Every mother in line had a look of terror on their face.

Enter Mary. “Oh, hang on there… just wait a second. I know it looks good and I’m sure you can get a taste, but let’s have the nice man cut a slice for you.” I felt the women in line send stares of “how could yous,” and I wanted to send looks back saying “what? He’s acts like a 40-year-old. I swear.”

As the man took over the bread slicing, I explained that he cuts much better slices anyway because he practices all day long and the boy smiled. My neighbor paid for the loaves, we said “thank you” and we were off…with all of his 10 fingers intact.

With only a few minutes left to get him home we made a dash to the tomato booth for a plump red tomato and grabbed a gathering of beet and field greens. As we headed home, I did my best to balance the loaves of bread and other purchases while my neighbor skipped along next to me. I smiled to myself.

Although the farmer’s market is usually the highlight of my week, it was even more of a highlight to share it with a fellow foodie who taught me a few things. Use pesto in my lasagna, always hold the door, don’t play with knives and most importantly…skip on the way home.

The Final Dish: Farmer’s markets should make everyone want to skip.