Korea in the rice fields . . . Havana, Cuba at the Tropicana . . . Waterloo, Belgium at the Belle-Alliance Cafe-Restaurant. How many days would you stay at each? What would you dine upon?
I went to the local Farmer’s Market today. It is almost July, but the local foods were slim pickings. We have bulbous Spring onions, some small peaches, baskets of apples the size of a toddler’s fist, a few damp lettuces and bunches of the everlasting sturdy Swiss chard. To ease the sense of overhanging exasperation at what the concept of seasonal local eating really means in many places (except for those places we deign ‘Paradise’) I took to shuffling through my postcards to find some different marketplaces of past times. Mexico, England, Morocco, and Fiji. Which one would you want to visit first?
American Wife: “Show me your rice. I use Uncle Ben’s. This feels funny on my foot.”
American Husband: “Really, I’m awfully tired of her cooking. Can you make me some teriyaki?”
Japanese Woman: “Please!! Take my rice! Take it all! Just get that horrible red plaid shirt out of my sight!!! I beg of you!”