The Last Rutabaga

The true story of my first farmers markets

We just couldn’t get rid of that last rutabaga.

The much-maligned rutabaga.

I’ll tell you right now I am not a fan of these things. It’s probably the only vegetable I truly dislike. And maybe I’ve just never had it prepared the right way. They’re just not my thing.

But at this particular market, where we started with a pickup truck full of sweet corn and a couple boxes of other produce, Rawn and I ended up with one rutabaga. In the end it didn’t seem we could even give it away.

This was probably around 1980, at a flea market near Brainerd, Minnesota. I spent two summers there with my great uncle and aunt, Rusty and Norma Miller, helping them on their hobby farm. I mowed the (really big) lawn and weeded the (really big) garden, put my best effort into painting the (really big) barn, and helped the customers who were lured off the highway by the rustic wooden signs offering Strawberries, Sweet Corn, Tomatoes, and Vegetables.

Rusty and Norma needed an extra hand, and I didn’t have any summer plans, and it was a nice way to earn a few bucks. I usually worked hard in the morning and had afternoons to mostly hang around and mind the store (a.k.a. garage). I got to tool around on the ATV, swim almost every day in the lake a half mile up the road, and eat vegetables that were in the ground or on the stalk just a couple hours earlier.

One of my tasks was to sell sweet corn at the flea market. They didn’t have farmers markets then, or maybe there, so it was a flea market with all the “antiques” and cheap things you’d expect, plus this 14-year old kid selling produce out of the back of a pickup.

On Saturday morning we’d get up at 5am and one of the adults would back the pickup over a couple rows of corns, while the other two would tear the corn off the stalk and throw it in the truck bed as it inched down the rows. When it was full we threw a tarp over it and they’d drive me to the market. They’d leave me there for the morning, and I’d sell corn until the truck was empty, and I’d use the pay phone (ha!) to call and get a ride home.

My second summer my friend Rawn joined me for a week, and we did the market together. We’d sell corn by a “Miller Dozen” — a dozen is 12, a baker’s dozen is 13, but a Miller dozen is 14 — and other produce along the way. People would ask if it was fresh, and I’d dig deep into the pile and pull out an ear — “Feel that dew, and the coolness? I picked this at 5 o’clock this morning.”

Early morning at Tower Grove Farmers Market in St. Louis

Decades later, Kakao Chocolate got its start at the Tower Grove Farmers Market, and I’ve worked — dare I say — thousands of markets since 2008, sometimes 2 or 3 or 4 a week. And you might think I’d get tired of it, but I look forward to them, to seeing friends, visiting with other vendors, introducing new people to our products, to being outside and enjoying whatever weather is available that day. (TBH, certainly I’m not enthusiastic every single market morning, especially when it’s really hot or cold or rainy, because that’s just not possible. But overall they’re generally a thumbs up.) I recently realized that looking out and seeing the tops of all the tents, whether it’s one of my markets or one I’m attending, I get a little excited and look forward to whatever I’m going to find.

Which is another reason I’m really excited about this Masters program in Italy — they have LOTS of markets. Not just flea markets and farmers markets, but Earth Markets, which I’ll share more about in future posts. And a big component of the global Slow Food universe is the support of farmers and the markets where they sell.

For now — and did you know it’s National Farmers Market Week, August 4-10? — I’ll just remind you that a farmers market is the absolutel shortest supply chain you’re ever going to experience. This is where you, the consumer, purchase carrots or corn or sausage or jelly or pickles or chocolate or even rutabagas, directly from the person who grew it or raised it or made it. No distributors or grocery store or trucking company, just you and the farmer. You can not only know your food, but know the person who grew it or made it.

Mercato di Porta Palazzo in Turin, Italy

Back at the flea market, Rawn and I ran out of everything except some corn and that ugly root vegetable, and we tried to give it away as an addition to the Miller dozen, over and over, to no avail. Eventually that single rutabaga was all we had left, and I left Rawn still trying to give it away and went to call for our ride. When I came back, Rawn was empty-handed, but he wouldn’t tell me what happened to it.