The Forty-Dollar Farm Stand

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‘Yes, we have no bananas’

I miss The Bonacker. Especially when I get a craving for corn.

The Bonacker was this crusty old guy who’d set up a card table on the grassy verge of the road near the power station and pile it with sweet corn that he’d haul over every morning in from, I’m assuming, his farm.

I don’t have a photo of The Bonacker, but he was a dead ringer (no pun intended) for my Grampa Henry. Come to think of it, I never saw them on the same tractor at the same time

I’m assuming he was a farmer because he sold corn. But other Bonackers (AKA “Bubs”) were baymen who, instead of hauling corn, would “haul-seine”) bluefish and sell them right on the beach. Actually, many men of the Bonacker persuasion did both. They also raked clams which their wives would make into clam pies. (I have never tasted a clam pie, and have no plans to do so.)

But I did taste — and savor — my share of Bonaker corn. I’d stop by The Bonacker’s on my bike and fill up my basket. I remember it cost 10 cents an ear. If you bought a dozen, he’d throw in a bonus ear. I also remember that we rarely had any left over. Which was sort of a shame, since Corn Salad is one of my favorite creations. (You can find the recipe, which is actually more of a “method”, at “Friends, Romans, Countrymen: lend me your ears”.)

As rare as Bonacker accents at my house — leftover corn

The Bonacker was so cool that if you forgot your money (which happened to me more than once) he would simply tell you to pay him next time. As for “telling you”, understanding him could be a bit of a challenge. The Bonackers, including “my” Bonacker, spoke a dialect that harkened back to the 17th Century when the first working-class English came over.

Bonackers left out pronouns, called each other “Bub”, and pronounced “ie” like “oy”. (That clam pie would be a clam “poy”, but I still don’t want to taste it.) They also used archaic English words like “wickus” for rascal, and “cattywumpus” for, well, cattywumpus.

Now, my Bonacker may be gone, but you can still find damn good corn out here at many a farm stand. My favorite — and not only because it’s close enough that I can still hop on that same trusty (now pretty creaky) bike to go score me some — is the one I (sort of) affectionately refer to as the Forty-Dollar Farm Stand.

The Forty-Dollar Farm Stand is run by surfers. Or at least farmers who surf — or who surfed at some point

I used to call it the Twenty-Dollar Farm Stand because, no matter what I bought, it cost twenty dollars. Me: “I’ll take that piece of cheese and those cocktail napkins” Farm Stand Guy: “That’ll be twenty dollars, please.” Or: “I’d like a pint of olives and some of that fresh mozzarella.” “That’ll be twenty dollars, please.” I’d hand over the twenty I’d tucked into my sneaker and off I’d go.

This is one reason I ride my bike: Road rage at the Forty-Dollar Farm Stand. The more stuff costs, the more people want to buy it. I guess

But that was the old days. Now I need two twenties — one in each sneaker. (If the prices get any steeper, I’ll need to grow another foot — and I don’t mean in height.)

Fortunately, the items that cost the earth are usually things I don’t buy except once in a blue moon for a hostess gift — things like jams and pickles. And their pies. I haven’t seen a “clam poy” there, but their other pies are so pricey you might as well just pile some dollar bills into a crust with sugar and butter and eat that. Yum.

I’ve got to give the Forty-Dollar Farm Stand credit, though. Expensive though their items may be, they don’t sell anything that isn’t made or grown locally. Once, at a different, not-so-scrupulous farm stand, I was standing behind this Fancy City Lady when she held up a hand of bananas and asked if they were “local”.

Oh, and the F-D FS corn is still pretty reasonable (at least you don’t feel like you’re chomping on an ear made of money) — and absolutely delicious. Besides, what’s not to like about a farm stand with a dog named Blue? (See the photo featuring blue-eyed Blue at the top of this post.)

Shucking corn using a Mom-tested, Bud-fueled method

And, speaking of methods, you can find an absolutely foolproof way to cook corn by checking out “To Hell with Kale”. Honest to the Bonacker Gods, you’ll get perfect corn every time. (Hint: gin and tonic is involved.)

Wineberries. Which you cannot buy at a farm stand, even if you stuff your sneakers with twenties. But you can find them in my yard in August — if you are really nice to me

Amagansett, New York. August 2019

To hell with kale

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‘An Ode to Corn’

Last night was the fourth night in a row that we did not have kale.

Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t like kale. Kale has its tasty uses (see yummy recipe at the end of this post for proof). It’s just that I love corn. Which is what we had last night–yes–for the fourth night in a row. I’m not talking Niblets here, people. I’m talking fresh-from-the-farm-stand corn-on-the-cob corn.

It would be hard for me not to love corn. After all, I grew up in the Midwest right in the heart of Corn Country. My Grampa Henry grew corn. My mother spent her summers detasseling corn. My dad spent his working in a plant that processed Green Giant MexiCorn.

Now I understand that there are a heck of a lot of kale-lovers out there. Enough that there are rumors of a Continue reading