This morning I biked down the Lake Shore Path to the Green City Market. Since it's Wednesday, it would be pretty empty, I thought. Wrong. Daley's pet farmers market was just about the most crowded I'd ever seen. There were people everywhere, from a battalion of moms with expensive-looking strollers to a slightly smaller yet sizable army of stylish young men (stylish in a meticulously-created-five-o'clock-shadow-and-carefully-rolled-up-bottoms-of-torn-jeans kind of way). I chained up my bike and walked in, wondering what the deal was. It turned out that Rick Bayless, the stellar chef of Topolobampo and Frontera Grill was doing a kitchen demonstration. One of the vendors at the nearby crepe stand told me that she'd never seen a chef demonstration this popular. (By the way, their cheese & herb crepe was pretty good, though the crepe itself could have been a bit less sweet.)

From a bunch of different stalls, I picked up überfresh asparagus (photographed), two heirloom tomatoes (photographed), about 1/4 pound of shiitake mushrooms and a pint of tiny strawberries. I got some stares when I was biking back home with the bag of strawberries hanging from the handle of my backpack, but that was definitely worth it--most of the fragile fruits survived the bumpy ride along Clark, on my suspension-less road bike. When Patrick comes home, I'll have them with some brownies and the leftover whipped cream (out of a spray can). Though I've snacked on some already...

Apparently, eating local is the "in" thing right now in the food writing industry (Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetables, Miracles and Alisa Smith's Plenty immediately come to my mind.) But looking at the veggies and fruits on the farmers' tables this morning in Lincoln Park, I couldn't help noticing the limiting implication of this "locavore" movement. Especially in Chicago.

There were lots of baby greens, asparagus and strawberries. There were quite a few young onions (photographed), chives, snap peas and rhubarbs. But there weren't too many others. Even the things we might think of as perennial staples at supermarkets, like potatoes and carrots, aren't visible in the farmers' market. Not that they should have been--I'm all for seasonality in veggies and fruits. But if I decided to stick to the complete locavore diet, I would be eating baby green salads and grilled asparagus for about a month before other things come in season. (I remember the cucumber hell and eggplant hell when my mom had bountiful years in our backyard veggie garden in Japan.) And what would I eat in winter, anyway?

Frigid Chicago winter aside, I suppose it really comes down to principles. I've been accustomed to being able to eat with a ton of variety, all year round, thanks to the globalized food production and distribution system. This is not just about the cooking methods and cuisines, but also about the ingredients. There's a limit to how many ways you can cook your asparagus. (For me, it's like five or six.) My brain might question the whole system that enables this kind of varied diet, but my spoiled (trained?) palate craves for the very thing that my brain questions. It's a glutton's dilemma that seems to take a lot of determination to solve.

Meanwhile, I'm entertaining the idea of reading either of the locavore books, because, after all, eating what can be produced locally may not be that limiting. Or is this an optimistic illusion?

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Green City Market
At the south end of Lincoln Park, between 1750 N. Clark St. and Stockton Dr.

We got up relatively early this morning to visit the organic greenhouse in the Kilbourn Park. The purpose was to catch the annual organic plant sale before all the cool stuff (like Green Zebra tomatoes and Jamaican Hot Chocolate peppers) sell out. My mom joined us from the suburbia, and the three of us stuffed ourselves into my car with coffee mugs in hands.

When we arrived at the park about thirty minutes before the opening, there was only one person waiting in front of the chain link gate to the greenhouse. It was perfect out: the sky was blue, the air was still chilly but crisp, the grass moist under our feet. Birds chirped in the trees that lined the nearby streets, while little league kids run around the baseball field. A muscular guy was doing endless push-ups in the training field by the greenhouse.

A beautiful cat appeared out of nowhere and kept us entertained as we waited in the line.

A few minutes later, a woman started to set up a bake sale table by the line. I eyed at the golden scones and small bags of homemade granola, but we'd just had breakfast (a piece of French country bread each, lightly toasted with a slice of Provolone), so I behaved myself. The young mother in front of us walked up to the table and got a small bag of cookies. Sensing our curious gaze, she graciously gave one--a rosemary pine nut cookie--to Patrick. My mom, Patrick and I each took a bite off the crisp, tiny cookie. The lone pine nut fell on the ground when my mom took her bite, but the rosemary and the buttery-sugary cookie was a surprisingly nice combination.

Just before the greenhouse opened, the husband of the cookie woman returned with their kids, whom he picked up and placed in the plastic trolley. (A very well-prepared family!) They were the first to walk into the greenhouse, closely followed by us.

While we waited, we'd drawn up our battle plan: my mom and I would go to the peppers section while Patrick would take care of the tomato business. We did. I piled up the plastic tray with Thai hot pepper, Serrano Chilli peper and Poblano pepper, while my mom went overboard with Bolivian Rainbow, Sunrise Orange Bell pepper, and an ornametal pepper. (Yes, we got much more than we planned.) Meanwhile, Patrick got two Green Zebras, a Legend and Three Sisters tomatoes, along with some herbs (including a beautiful bronze-colored fennel).

The gardeners who gather for the rare opportunity to buy heirloom tomatoes and exotic peppers are, for the most part, pretty nice. But it does get a little hostile, for there's only so many plants and the concrete aisle are too narrow to get past someone who's intently picking the best plant out of the closely grouped clusters. This year, the experience was much more pleasant, mainly because we were done with picking by the time the main wave of people hit the greenhouse. Getting up early and spending half an hour before the greenhouse opens is definitely the way to go: especially when the weather it nice, thirty-minute wait in a beautiful park is more a delight than an annoyance.

When we came out with our hands full with green, happy-looking plants, the back of the brick-and-glass greenhouse had beautiful flower containers--which, considering what the building is, shouldn't be a surprise. Since both my mom and I left our purses in my car, poor Patrick had to pay for all the plants. Luckily for him, they were quite reasonably priced--most tomatoes were $3 each, while most of the herbs and peppers were only $2. As we drove back home, the entire car was filled with that summer smell of tomato vines. We entrusted most of the tomatoes and peppers to my mom, who has a tremendous advantage of a backyard: Patrick and I live in a very sunny apartment, but compared to an outdoor garden, our plants never get as much sun. We kept one container-friendly tomato (the Legend) and the herbs to ourselves, and are planning to give one of the Green Zebras to the Southern Branch. I'm hoping that this year won't (again) prove my incredible aptitude as a merciless killer of potted plants...

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Kilbourn Park Organic Greenhouse
(They are very helpful when you have questions about organic gardening, and even about how to use the exotic herbs and peppers you get from their sale.)
3501 N. Kilbourn Ave. Chicago, IL
773.685.3351