May 29, 2015 Now that I live in the Altstadt, the Mainzer farmers’ market is only a two minute walk away. And I love it. It’s another connection to my childhood in Vermont–some of my earliest memories are of Saturdays spent at the Randolph market, where my mother sold handmade baskets and my sister and I ate apple cider doughnuts and played with the kittens that some farmer or another was always trying to hand off. Later, after we moved to Grand View Farm, my mother sold yarn and wood-fired pizza on Friday afternoons on the Chelsea commons, and my sister and I read Tolkien and Thomas Mann and babysat our border collies. “I hate farmers’ markets in Vermont,” my brother always said, 16 and way too cool for small-town New England, “There are too many hippie children.” A reference, of course, to the ever-present horde of skin-kneed, androgynous, ice-cream eating, Waldorf-schooled, and thoroughly wild, wonderful offspring of Vermont’s 1960s generation. “Come on!” my sister and I always said, “It wasn’t that long ago that we were all right out there with them.”
The children in Mainz are different–more city-savvy and multi-lingual, and better dressed–and the backdrop is completely different–cobblestones and a 1,000-year-old cathedral instead of a green-grass common and white clapboard church–but the market is, in essence, the same. Farmers are farmers, no matter where in the world one happens to be.
This time of year in Mainz, asparagus and strawberries are in season. It’s rather like rhubarb season in May in Vermont–you rejoice when it comes, gorge yourself for a month, and by the end of it are so sick of the stuff that you don’t have a problem waiting a year until spring rolls around again. Here, there’s an Spargel-und-Erdbeeren (asparagus and strawberries) stand on almost every street corner, it seems, and half the market is devoted to them in some form or another. Try the asparagus chutney and the strawberry jam! Here’s the best wine to pair with asparagus and strawberries! Buy a kilo of each and save five euros!
Needless to say, I have eaten an inordinate amount of asparagus and strawberries in the last month.
Below: Moritz, the biggest, fattest, fluffiest rooster I have ever had the pleasure of getting to know. His owner, who has a cool hat and the broadest of Meenzer dialects, is pretty cool, too.
In the end, whether in Vermont or Germany, the purpose of a local market is to forge connections between consumers and the land, the food, and the people who grow it. As a popular Vermont bumper sticker says, “Who’s your farmer?” That question is a little harder to answer in urban Germany than it is in backwoods, hippie New England, of course, but I think the market is a good place to start.