Green Bean

I couldn't imagine what I'd find at the market to represent the season. 2 1/2 months is a long time for crops to come and go at the end of summer.  When I left in July, A dozen types of peaches had taken the place of strawberries that had replaced cherries. Watermelons the size of planets, cheaper than bottled water and dripping ripe tomatoes  filled the market. 

But at Italy's  markets there's always something new. 

(Photo by Lensenvy)                                                                                                                          Stepping now into the  twice a week Colorno market, held in the Piazza in front of the Reggia, I am met by  the smell of  mushrooms... somewhere... i never do find them.  The colours are different, green, yellow and orange pumkins adorn displays of serious autumn vegetables; cauliflowers, cabbage and metre high bitter chicory greens. Golden Delicious from the Alpine valleys, patently sunblushed but sweet and fresh sit alongside a basket of gnarly kanker-split irregulars and a dozen varieties of pear.. so distinct and stylish they assume another name.

And out front, in rustic baskets, are chestnuts.

Wonderful, rich definitive colour... the solid deep hue of  a season sinking into winter. I thought chestnuts were chestnuts. The ladies of Colonata, many moons ago, harvesting chestnuts showed me that only some of the trees give the right type of chestnuts for making flour. Now i'm scratching my head, because the two baskets, with almost identical nuts have two different prices; 2.50 a kilo for the "castagne".. and 4.50 for the "marroni". I puzzle too long, and the stall holder comes forward... "no,no,no.. very very different!". The marroni don't have a skin that sticks to the soft yellow flesh inside. mmm, I ponder too long... "I'm looking for someone to make me this cake" she thrusts a kids comic page with a recipe for "Ciambella di Castagne" into my hands.. followed by a sack of rattle-clacking chestnuts. "you can have the chestnuts.. I just don't have time to bake, you see". The crowd is giggling... I'm being duped! "Come back on Friday, we'll be waiting to taste the Torta!"

Welcome home to Italy... something I wasn't sure I'd feel last week.

On past the autumn fruit; piles of muscat grapes, crates of cotton-downy quinces  and trays of translucent persimmons.  And... oh! this stall has an exclusive! Citrus! the first of the year, a mixed bin of clementines and mandarins. Again I'm puzzled and stare at the lime-green fruit, leaves as fresh as lettuce. The frantic bustle of the market leaves me behind... "but are they ripe?"  The young woman behind the stall stretches back to take a cut fruit from a colleague.. "yes, yes.. they're rose inside... look", and I'm stunned as she says "It's their quality".

For the first time in a year I'm not wearied by the Q word.

She's saying that these early varieties are ok to eat green... they're ripe inside.. it's their particular characteristic  to be green.  I'm refreshed by the completely direct and clear way that she uses the word quality. It's a word overused, abused and made meaningless as the giants of the food world take their stances in the war over what is good food. Exercised as a type of propaganda; high quality, quality control, quality control... da da da none of it means a great deal without the specifics... and then we can make our own minds up.

I buy a kilo and relish the first spray of citric oil to spray out as i peel back the paper-thin skin. They are just sweet, crisp and juicy, the segments snapping apart. Wonderful!