I'm participating in the 100-Mile Thanksgiving, details of which I will not bore you with — just yet.
But like most people, I'm excited about the coming food celebration, and I've been planning and replanning my menu for weeks.
There are certain items that simply aren't grown within 100 miles of my home, and I'm gamely doing without them. Sugar? Feh. I'll use honey. Black pepper? Who needs it when I've got a local source for habanero flakes.
For my turkey stuffing I can either bake my own whole wheat bread with local flour or find an alternative to bread. Still haven't made a final decision there.
But one item I bravely decided to forgo was celery for the stuffing. I don't think I've eaten a stick of celery since the first Eat Local Challenge last year.
Because I stupidly decided celery wasn't locally grown. I have no idea why. For more than a year now, I just haven't been wearing my celery spectacles.
Until today when Cranky and I were picnicking on cheese and salami and olives at a little table in the sun next to the Wednesday farmers market in Corte Madera. We were just lazily sitting there, not even shopping since the house is full of food. But we were watching the shoppers (and that will make a fun post someday). The strawberries were flying out of the market, even in late November, but the "I can't cook" Marin crowd was pretty much ignoring the verdant, lush pile of greens.
"Look, Cranky," I said. "Nobody knows what to do with kale or dandelion or — ohmygod, is that celery that guy just picked up?"
It was. And it was local.
And it's going in the stuffing.
Maybe into a Bloody Mary, too; we'll see.