I fucking love the farmer’s market.
It’s not just that I’m some kind of food snob. It’s not just that I’d rather think local and eat local and support the little guy farmer over and above the aggro “big agra” executive. It’s not just that I like playing a game where I tally the number of Suburus, designer dogs, yuppies, hippies, old folks, and strollers.
It’s that sometimes, crazy shit happens at the farmer’s market. Maybe it’s something in the air. Maybe everybody’s goofy on rhubarb. No idea what it is, only that it is.
* * *
He’s the Honey Man, but also, the Egg Man.
(Coo-coo-ca-choo.)
The guy’s a ninja with his bees and bee-hives, and he’s got every type of honey you could imagine. Clover, wildflower, blueberry, knotweed. It’s the knotweed that’s most interesting and most complex: it’s thick and dark and tastes like scorched molasses (er, except, in a good way — it’s like the espresso of honeys). But he’s got the honeycomb and the bee pollen and all that shit.
But, as noted, he’s also got eggs.
His eggs are sublime. Farm eggs are like eggs pooped out of chicken-shaped angels. You get an egg from the grocery store, it’s fine, it’s suitable, it does the trick. But you don’t know real eggs until you’ve had one straight from a healthy itinerant chicken — the whites are whiter, the yolks are a sun-bright orange instead of a sad ochre, and overall the eggs just taste more… well, eggy. (This is the truest thing I can say regarding meat from healthy, well-bred livestock. It always tastes like the thing it already is, only moreso. Pork is porkier. Beef is beefier. And so on and so forth. It’s like the flavor volume goes to 11.)
Point is, the Honey Man, he also sells eggs, and this is why we dig him.
He’s a quirky dude, this Bee Guy. Ex-Marine. Ex-chemist. Built like an M1 tank. Teeth like a busted-ass jack-o-lantern. He frequently wears cut-off denim shorts so cut off they might as well be Daisy Dukes.
He’s a good guy, though. Quick with a story and a chat. Friendly as anything.
I went to the farmer’s market yesterday.
There, sitting at his booth is his girlfriend. Attractive. Maybe in her early 40s — and he’s in his 60s, I’d guess. She’s hay-blonde, and doing something that I thought blondes only did in books or movies: twirling her hair around her finger and staring blankly at nothing. I try talking to her, but she just calls for the Honey Man, and by “calls for” I mean, “lamely mumbles his name so he can’t hear her.”
Then I hear clucking. I look over and next to the table in the back is a big chicken cage where the Honey Man — acting as Egg Man — brought some chickens. The chickens begin to freak out. They’re chickens, after all, which pretty much means they’re dicks. Stupid dicks, at that. The fact you can lop a clucker’s head off and he’ll still live for days is a sign. Any creature whose only true need in this world is a barely-functioning brain-stem is not high on the intelligence list (though somehow Snooki still got a book deal).
See, the Egg Man, some the eggs he sells are blue. Not robin’s egg blue, but rather, a blue-gray hue — pretty, but you wouldn’t hang them from your ears or anything. Even still, the guy gets a lot of questions: “What kind of animal lays the blue egs?” as if he’s got a secret dodo farm off of the Turnpike. Thus he decided to bring in two of his hens since they’re a unique lot — the “Araucana” chicken.
Well, these two hens are, as noted, being dicks.
So, Egg Man storms over, grabs the cage with both hands, and gives it a violent shake.
CLANG CLANG CLANG.
Then he yells — loudly, in a farmer’s market full of sensitive yuppie-types and their delicate progeny —
“SHUT UP, YOU BITCH!”
And a chill filled the air.
Everyone paused. The bakery lady in the booth next had a look on her face like she just saw a circus geek bite the head off a poodle. People either stopped to stare or instead chose to hurry past.
It was awesome.
I don’t know if he was mad at the hair-twirling girlfriend and was yelling at her via her proxy, the exotic chicken. I don’t know if he just had some momentary PTSD. Maybe he’s just pissed off at chickens.
God knows we remember what happens when I got mad at a chicken.
Egg Man then took the Araucana out of the cage and brought over this gnarly-footed lion-maned chicken to coo and burble in his denim-clad lap. Then I bought my eggs, chatted for a while, and went on my way.
But I love that moment where he dropped — in effect — a turd in the otherwise serene punchbowl of the farmer’s market. Blue eggs from bitch chickens.
You don’t see that shit at the grocery store.
Jamie Beckett says:
While camping in Vermont many years ago I had the good fortune to pitch a tent in the field of a friendly farmer who looked as if he might have been a boyhood friend of Ben Franklin’s. He was old, that’s all I’m saying.
His wife had a loom in the house, and she made her own cloth with it. And they had chickens in the barn. Now I know there are lots of barns in Vermont, and a lot of those barns have chickens in them. These chickens were different, though. These chickens laid green eggs. Not emerald green. That would be freaky. These were a pleasant sort of pastel green, the kind of green that says, “Go ahead, pick me up, try me out.” Then when you’d finished breakfast a little voice in the back of your head kept pecking away at you, whispering quietly in the background, “Good, right? I told you I would be.”
That’ s what I remember about Vermont all these years later. An old farmer, a woman with a loom, and green eggs.
That’s a pretty full vacation, don’t you think?
June 2, 2011 — 12:54 AM
Sparky says:
Clearly this indicates I need to hit up the local farmers market more often (and by proxy wake up before noon on a Saturday). The location alone should make it interesting. It’s a park in the middle of downtown. Six days of the week it’s hobos and druggies. One morning though and it’s families and farmers market things.
A wonderful story Chuck. I salute the Egg Man.
June 2, 2011 — 5:04 AM
terribleminds says:
Heh, nice.
The green eggs are also from an araucana, or a less-feathered version, the Americana.
— c.
June 2, 2011 — 6:02 AM
terribleminds says:
Thanks, @Sparky!
June 2, 2011 — 6:02 AM
Julie says:
Dodo farm off of the Turnpike-
Album.
June 2, 2011 — 6:35 AM
Amber Keller says:
What is it about the holier-than-thou air that farts through a farmer’s market? I do enjoy going, though. Except my kids are the one’s having a full on tantrum because we won’t take home the puppies that the straggler on the end has in a box sitting in his truck bed. Yeah, that’s my kids you hear yelling for the delicious, homemade donuts that the local Mennonite’s make. I will admit that sometimes I’m wanting to yell, too. The line is always wrapped around the block, or to some far off location that I’m not willing to stand.
I think I will be paying the market a visit this Saturday now.
For the donuts. And the puppies.
June 2, 2011 — 8:02 AM
Ali says:
That is priceless. Seriously priceless. Also, it’s been too long since I’ve been to the farmer’s market. I love my local one. It is full of great things. Also, there’s a bakery attached — best apple cider donuts in the world. *food swoon*
The Chicken/Honey Man? Awesome. I suppose this would be a good time to mention that I once had a pet chicken. (Yeah, I was THAT kid. If it wandered into the yard, PET. It’s a PET.) She (turned out it was a girl…I thought it was a boy) laid eggs one day — once and only once. She lived to be quite old for a chicken.
Anyway, the farmer’s market by me is a lot of fun. You always run in to someone you know — for better or worse.
Thanks for the laugh this morning. This was a great story.
June 2, 2011 — 8:46 AM
Amanda Bonilla says:
We actually own a few of those chickens! They’re also called “Easter Egg” chickens because of the color of their eggs. And you’re totally right, everything raised organic and on a small farm tastes better. We haven’t bought any kind of meat or eggs from a grocery store in three years. No joke. And chickens are a total pain in the ass. But they’re nothing compared to roosters! Those bastards are just mean!
June 2, 2011 — 9:30 AM
Darlene Underdahl says:
I went back and read your rooster story; I hadn’t seen it before. Nice. Your dad was a lot like mine.
My mother sold eggs, so we got new chicks from the hatchery every two years. Chickens can live quite a long time, but they’re reliable producers for only a couple of years. So, we had chicks growing up, and older hens getting their necks wrung at least every Sunday, and sometime more often. Typical farm stuff, but genteel folks get all worked up when they hear about it.
Our dog liked to run the Leghorns down. He wouldn’t hurt them, he’d just nail them with his chest, and they’d roll out behind him, squacking and feathers flying. I didn’t feel sorry for them because they’re dicks and cannibals besides.
June 2, 2011 — 9:38 AM
Michael LaRocca says:
That IS awesome. The last time I yelled “Shut up, you bitch” at a farmer’s market, she didn’t.
June 2, 2011 — 10:08 AM
Lindsay Mawson says:
My husband and I have laying hens, Americanas and Rhode Island Reds (and Cornish, a few others I can’t remember the names of, Red Golden Pheasants, Lady Amherst Pheasants, etc). . We get about 6 eggs a day from our laying hens, green and brown, it’s so awesome. The one thing I noticed immediately was that the egg shells are much harder when they’re home grown. And yes, the eggs are eggier!! We buy half a pig from my father-in-law, and a quarter cow (Black Angus, yummy) from his co-worker. The beef actually smells like hide when you’re cooking it. That’s how you know it’s fresh. Delic.
We have a farmers market that we frequent, with auctions and all. You do get some crazy folk. A lot of stollers and people that just won’t get out of the way. But it’s definitely the best place to buy your fresh food if you don’t grow your own.
June 2, 2011 — 10:36 AM
Rachel Russell says:
Yes! This is why I love the Farmer’s Market too. Well, that and the food is amazing there. I go mainly for the tomatoes. I can scarf down actual garden-fresh tomatoes like nobody’s business. The one’s from the store are just never as good. It’s kind of like eating a fruit.. vegetable.. WHATEVER IT IS NOW.. that doesn’t really have a taste.
June 2, 2011 — 11:04 AM
Danielle says:
Whenever I hear “Egg Man”, I think “Dr. Robotnik” thanks to the really bad decision to change Sonic the Hedgehog’s arch-nemesis’ name to a more correct translation of his Japanese one.
So when you’re talking about this honey/chicken dude, I’m picturing this: http://www.mariowiki.com/images/b/b9/Eggman.jpg
Have to say, it made this story much funnier.
June 2, 2011 — 12:48 PM
Anthony Elmore says:
I used to live on this one acre plot right in the middle of Suitcase City, Tampa. Because we had a nice spread, we bought some chickens just for laughs. Within a few months, we realize we had a breakfast vending machine that kept the grub population in check. Sadly, the chickens themselves were diminished by eagles and (we thing) a Hispanic neighbor.
It seems my area of Georgia doesn’t have a farmers market closeby. We do have this weekly riverside market where local organic farmers sell fruits and vegetables at prices that rival a good cut of Bolivian Marching Powder. As much I disliked Florida, they had excellent farmers markets where you could get anything, even car parts and Santeria spells.
Perhaps the only drama was when the EMS arrived to treat someone for heat exposure or a stroke. Everyone was mellow, and I never saw one chicken get cussed out.
June 3, 2011 — 1:50 PM
SusanKelly says:
Here in the frozen north, our farmer’s market is full of produce trucked in from California except for that magical three weeks in late August/early September when we have our own stuff. Then it’s winter again for 8 or 9 months.
Best thing my dad ever did for me was make me go after a rooster that used to terrorize me with a long stick. I was about four years old. In the end, he ran. Mammals rule.
June 4, 2011 — 12:35 PM
Jenny Hansen says:
I want to go to YOUR farmer’s market. All I get is killer salmon, passionate farmers and the dred-locks guy singing “Let It Be.”
June 6, 2011 — 3:24 AM