It’s 9 A.M. the day before Thanksgiving, bright and freezing cold, and the Greenmarket in New York is an absolute madhouse. Construction in Union Square means the aisle along one side of the market is even narrower than usual, and today the market is packed with people. The line to pick up turkeys at Quattro’s Farm is twenty people long at least. I do my best not to appear greedy as I scoop up the last of the Brussels sprouts at Cherry Lane Farm. Sue mentions that it’s her last market of the year. “I’m looking forward to a little peace and quiet,” she says. “You have a good winter. Take care of that baby of yours.” (That baby is about 20% by weight made of Sue’s broccoli.)
Ron Binaghi from Stokes Farm is rocked back on his heels and wearing a wry grin. “Most Saturdays we sell maybe 150 bunches of herbs. Today it’ll be close to 3,000. People show up who’ve never been down to a Greenmarket in their life. They’ve got their heads down and they’re working through their list in a panic. ‘No marjoram? How can I make this recipe without marjoram?’ If I didn’t have basil from my greenhouse there’d be a riot. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. After today we just hang around selling wreaths until Christmas.”
Jim Grillo has made the four-hour drive from near Utica to sell his heirloom cabbages and chicories and the few turkeys he’s raised. “I can’t raise too many,” he says in his heavy New York accent. “One year I didn’t sell out and then I had to eat turkey for the rest of my life. But they’re tasty birds.” Jim’s at the market all winter, selling the vegetables he’s got in cold storage, along with his rabbits and quail.
Tim Stark, tomato farmer extraordinaire, is looking even more worried than usual. “I just bought a farm—finally, after all these years—and now I’m having major buyer’s remorse. I worry I paid too much. I worry I could have gotten a better loan. I worry that the economy will tank and the restaurants won’t buy my produce and I won’t be able to make payments on the farm.” Tim grows mostly warm-weather vegetables and his stand looks bedraggled. “We shouldn’t have bothered to come in, really, but I wanted a chance to say goodbye to people before we disappear for the winter.”
This is the sound and smell of fall turning into winter. These are the people who feed my family. They tell great stories. They work hard. I see them once a week, and our conversations are brief but full of affection. I’m grateful to the farmers who show up when the days are shortest, and I miss the ones who stay home, and I’ll be happy to say hello when we see each other next spring.
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