The vegetable man cometh.
I hear that on Wednesdays, a small vegetable market is set up on the lawn in front of the (one and only) bank on the main road of the village of Ocracoke. There are, in fact, two places in the village to buy veggies, but the selection is somewhat limited. I am eager to see what is available from the vegetable man.
And it is one man. He is quite elderly, quite elderly, (a bit of a surprise, considering all of the hefting and toting involved), and has an absolutely genuine coastal North Carolina accent, the kind of accent which is rapidly dying. As each day passes.
He has quite a variety of veggies and fruit. And with a number of eager customers ahead of me, for a good ten minutes I get to ponder my selections, and hear his accent in action. When it is my turn, I pick out some lovely fresh lettuce, carrots, peppers and peas. Slimmer pickings as far as fruit, but I take a few apples and a bunch of grapes. All packed into a brown paper bag, Chester and I hike back to the cottage, (Chester to curl up on the sofa, and me back to work.)
I eat most of the grapes as I am working. (What is going on with my appetite?) I am craving the fresh peas in their sweet little pods, and convince myself that the longer I wait, the less flavourful they'll be.
I consume them. All. It is 11 a.m.
I am in the midst of the 'Three Hours of Art' part of the day, and am working on a series of mixed media figure works, works on panels intended to become part of one larger work, and which for the time-being, I call 'Pilgrimage', (for obvious reasons).
I am so distracted from my work, (by the contents of the kitchen), that I take a break to flip through the 'Virginian-Pilot'.
Staring at me from the front page of the life section, the word FOOD. Included in the many delights here, a wonderful recipe for 'Black bean, tomato and rice tortillas'. But here's the thing. The great thing. The directions are for microwave preparation.
The cottage does have (what I assume is) a perfectly good gas stove, but due to emotional circumstances beyond my control, I avoid it. I have been here, on this island, in this cottage, for ten days, and have done all of the cooking, ALL of the cooking, (including dozens of cups of tea), in the microwave.
I cut out the recipe and head for the grocery store, the bigger one, I decide, as I am unclear about the likelihood of finding several of the ingredients. But I am impressed by the extent of Mexican foods. There is a whole section of really interesting canned goods, some of which I have no idea, (after turning and turning the can in my hand), what the contents actually are. But I do find what I need, and some. Tortillas, green chiles, diced tomatoes, enchilada sauce, jalapenos, black beans, refried beans, rice, and monterey jack cheese. (The cheese is astonishingly cheap, compared to home.)
I manage, (with some difficulty), to put my new finds away until supper time, and to stick to my regime of art making, long walk and sea study. It is another sun-filled afternoon, the sea a pale blue/grey with yellow sparkling light. But like a small child anticipating Christmas, I can't WAIT for supper prep, and walk quickly.
We are home, and I put on some music - Jerry Jeff Walker, ('Takin' it as it comes'), cranked up. I pour my beer into a bulbous wine glass, lay out my materials and go at them.
I create a little salad as a salute to the vegetable man, cook rice, grate cheese. I put my ingredients in small colourful bowls and lay them out in order (a la Julia Child). I assemble and cook.
The results are spectacular. The tortillas (I have several) are heavenly, the combination of flavours and textures, the oozy cheese, the picante jalapenos - I have hit on the perfect combo, the perfect meal, a signature meal in fact, the 'theme food' for my time on this island.
I am...full.
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