French fingerlings – say that fast five times. I mean, who wouldn’t want to eat a potato that sounds so frolicky and flirtatious? Not that any potato really needs a P.R. campaign. But there is a certain mystique surrounding the lovely fingerling, so I am here to part the curtains and reveal the secrets of this charming tuber.
In the 1950s, eating fresh, local food wasn't a fad. It was a necessity.
This year we are growing pumpkins in the old piggery (by accident) and butternut squash in an old chicken yard (on purpose). I will spare you the explicit details on how and why these particular cucurbits are so happy and healthy, but let’s just say squash likes fertile soil.
So what if they lost to Germany this year. Brazilians, those from the land of futebol, carnival, and samba, have firmly established themselves on the Vineyard. The evidence is everywhere, from a selection of Portuguese books at the Oak Bluffs library to bilingual signs and ATMs. The birth announcements in the Vineyard Gazette speak of Manoels and Marias. In addition to several designated churches, there is a Portuguese Mass at Our Lady Star of the Sea.
Jessica B. Harris
Lately food trucks are all the rage but they’re hardly a new idea. Cowboys driving cattle in the 1800s had what were probably the first food trucks – they called them chuck wagons. In the 1890s lunch wagons did a good business catering to late-night workers. And of course mobile food trucks have been around for years, serving up food at construction sites.
It’s time for the near-annual presidential visit that focuses the world’s attention on our already bustling Island. The roadside signs will go up and those who are not too blasé will journey to the airport for the First Family’s arrival. Fourth of July bunting will be located and re-hung, and all around the Island merchants will head to their storerooms and out will come the presidential swag that didn’t sell out in years past. The hats inscribed “Summer White House Martha’s Vineyard” will be dusted off. T-shirts will, as always, abound.
Jessica B. Harris
If we didn’t have 250 tomato plants growing in our back field, believe me, right about now I’d be planning a serious farm-stand crawl. Island map and dollar bills in hand, I’d hop in my hot car, roll down the windows, and head out in pursuit of the Big One. You can have your prize-winning striper; for a cook-gardener like me, there is nothing like landing a perfectly ripe, obscenely juicy giant beefsteak tomato on a steamy summer day.