As I've said before, I often have to drag myself to the farmer's market, or marché, in my neighborhood when it happens twice a week. When I'm comfortably sitting at home, it seems like just another chore to have to take my chariot and fill it up with fruits, vegetables, flowers, cheese, meat or fish or apple cider, all fresher and cheaper than at the supermarket.
But it's hard to stay morose in that lively atmosphere. There's always something new and in season. One week it's pussy willows, another peonies, another strawberries or elvers or topinambours (that's Jerusalem artichokes to us).
This time I paused at a stand full of racines, or root vegetables. Recently I had eaten at a restaurant whose chef had taken a bunch of racines, sliced them up finely, roasted them, sautéed them, then drizzled them with sesame oil. Mmmms! Delicious. I took a little basket and began to try to pick out a few good-looking racines. The vendor came over to help me. "You're not used to this, I can see!" he said. I explained. He turned out to be an evangelist of roots. He threw back the ones I'd picked and put in smaller, more colorful ones. "Have you ever tried parsley root?" he said, and gave me two for free to try. Those are the little thin ones, with the parsley still attached, on the top of the plate. I ended up with dark purple and yellow and orange carrots, a topinambour, a couple of parsnips, and a turnip or two. There were also several kinds of beets, but I dislike beets so I put them back.
Then he asked me if I knew what kale was. "It's not a French légume," he said. "I bought a little bit, and no one ever bought it. Then an American woman came and bought all of it, and since then, I can't even keep it in stock." He waved at an empty place on the stand.
"It's supposed to be very good for you," I said.
He laughed. "Americans always tell you things are good for you!" he said. "They don't talk about the taste!"
