I’m back. Humor me please. My kitchen in New York is bare. The only things that sit in my refrigerator are a jar of baby cornichons floating in murky brine, and a half-used jar of Dijon mustard. Now I like vinegar as much as the next person, but cornichons dipped in mustard is a treat I will save for another day. So yes, I have to go the market.

I like where I live, but there are times when I just do not want to pay $3.00 for one measly avocado. I become sick and tired of the strawberries looking beautiful but tasting insipid, because well… they are all coming from California. So what do I do? Haul my cookies to California to see the family and lay on the hammock in the backyard of my parents house under the welcoming shade created from the apricot tree (no, I’m not kidding), thinking about what I will do with the bags of fresh produce from my sorely missed, favorite market.

I didn’t do much to this stellar assemblage, because really, there isn’t much to do to such delicious specimens. Frissé, prickled the roof of my mouth. Slippery fava beans (55 cents a pound, and organic!) lay next to mini Haas avocados ($1.89 a pound– a pound I tell you), smooth and buttery. Torn chunks of buffalo mozzarella from another favorite store, lent substance to the salad. Sprightly green garlic quickly sauteed in fruity olive oil, some fragrant lemon zest, a sprinkling of salt and pepper, and there you have it: springtime on a plate.

Yes, I ate well. And, in regards to my last post, I did enjoy the first apricots of the season, but at the market only. When I left, the burgeoning fruit on my parents’ apricot tree was beginning to weigh down the branches, but they remained green, just beginning to blush like a school girl. Alas, I could not lie in the hammock, reach up, and pluck a plump piece of fruit, dabbing my chin as the juice dribbled down. So no, life is not perfect in California either.