If I were a chef, I’d spend early Wednesday mornings at the Farmers Market. I’d get there around 7 a.m., when the produce was wet and fresh and the day was young and the people were still drinking their coffee.
If I were a chef, I’d wait patiently while the wrinkled granny lady individually fondled all 631 tomatoes on the table in front of her. I’d quietly tap my foot as she sniffed and touched each of the red, buxom vegetables before she finally selected two, and paid for them.
I’d do that, if I were a chef.
If I were a chef, I buy peaches — boxes and boxes of peaches. I’d buy them from the old, snaggle-toothed man with the radiant smile whose booth sits to the right of the entrance to the fairgrounds building. I’d buy his peaches because I know the old man understands fruit and earth and trees, better than anyone else there. I’d smile as his wrinkled, gnarly hand gently placed peach after peach in my basket. And I’d give him a sly wink after he handed me a bruised, but succulent peach — “because I’m a good customer” — for my breakfast.
I’d do that, if I were a chef.
If I were a chef, I would buy sacks of yellow zucchini and bundles of garlic. I’d fill my bags with green tomatoes, blood red peppers and round, luscious strawberries. I’d take them back to my restaurant and make salads, and sauces, and I’d mix the strawberries with sugar and heavy cream serve it to my customers in ice-coated crystal bowls.
If I were a chef, I have boxes of melons and fresh green beans and mounds of potatoes. I’d grill the perfect steak and serve it with freshly cooked new potatoes coated in herbs and butter.
If I were a chef, I’d try to purchase something from each and every farmer at the market. I'd place it all in cardboard boxes and cover them in burlap. The I'd put the boxes in the back of a well-worn, Ford pickup that I drove around town.
If I were a chef, I’d buy bundles of scallions, mountains of water melons and boxes of sweet onions. I’d laugh at the silly ‘organic’ label and instead look at the hands of those behind the booth, because if I were a chef, I’d know that a true farmer’s hands are worn, and calloused and marked from digging in the earth and tilling the soil. I’d look for men and women in old blue jeans and faded shirts—because that way, I could tell more about them and their farming than any sign ever could.
I’d do that, if I were a chef.
If I were a chef, I’d buy local. I’d seek out farmers and cattlemen and ranchers and little ladies who like cats, and make wool sweaters and who keep goats and rabbits and pigs. I’d buy exotic cheeses and good wine and fresh milk and cream.
If I were a chef, I’d emphasize taste and honest food. I’d have respect for those who grow crops and care for animals. And I’d feed my customers what I wanted to eat.
I’d do that, if were a chef.
If I were a chef, I stop late at night and smile. I’d stand outside under the stars and laugh with God. I’d bow my head and pray and thank Heaven and its steward for my life and for what he has provided.
If I were a chef, I’d eat the apple raw and let the sweet-tart juice run down my chin. The I’d wipe my mouth, squeeze my wife, kiss my children and sleep peacefully.
I’d do that, if I were only a chef.
If I were a chef, I’d wait patiently while the wrinkled granny lady individually fondled all 631 tomatoes on the table in front of her. I’d quietly tap my foot as she sniffed and touched each of the red, buxom vegetables before she finally selected two, and paid for them.
I’d do that, if I were a chef.
If I were a chef, I buy peaches — boxes and boxes of peaches. I’d buy them from the old, snaggle-toothed man with the radiant smile whose booth sits to the right of the entrance to the fairgrounds building. I’d buy his peaches because I know the old man understands fruit and earth and trees, better than anyone else there. I’d smile as his wrinkled, gnarly hand gently placed peach after peach in my basket. And I’d give him a sly wink after he handed me a bruised, but succulent peach — “because I’m a good customer” — for my breakfast.
I’d do that, if I were a chef.
If I were a chef, I would buy sacks of yellow zucchini and bundles of garlic. I’d fill my bags with green tomatoes, blood red peppers and round, luscious strawberries. I’d take them back to my restaurant and make salads, and sauces, and I’d mix the strawberries with sugar and heavy cream serve it to my customers in ice-coated crystal bowls.
If I were a chef, I have boxes of melons and fresh green beans and mounds of potatoes. I’d grill the perfect steak and serve it with freshly cooked new potatoes coated in herbs and butter.
If I were a chef, I’d try to purchase something from each and every farmer at the market. I'd place it all in cardboard boxes and cover them in burlap. The I'd put the boxes in the back of a well-worn, Ford pickup that I drove around town.
If I were a chef, I’d buy bundles of scallions, mountains of water melons and boxes of sweet onions. I’d laugh at the silly ‘organic’ label and instead look at the hands of those behind the booth, because if I were a chef, I’d know that a true farmer’s hands are worn, and calloused and marked from digging in the earth and tilling the soil. I’d look for men and women in old blue jeans and faded shirts—because that way, I could tell more about them and their farming than any sign ever could.
I’d do that, if I were a chef.
If I were a chef, I’d buy local. I’d seek out farmers and cattlemen and ranchers and little ladies who like cats, and make wool sweaters and who keep goats and rabbits and pigs. I’d buy exotic cheeses and good wine and fresh milk and cream.
If I were a chef, I’d emphasize taste and honest food. I’d have respect for those who grow crops and care for animals. And I’d feed my customers what I wanted to eat.
I’d do that, if were a chef.
If I were a chef, I stop late at night and smile. I’d stand outside under the stars and laugh with God. I’d bow my head and pray and thank Heaven and its steward for my life and for what he has provided.
If I were a chef, I’d eat the apple raw and let the sweet-tart juice run down my chin. The I’d wipe my mouth, squeeze my wife, kiss my children and sleep peacefully.
I’d do that, if I were only a chef.
Comments
even if you are not a chef, you are a writer, and we are fortunate with the menu you serve up
even if you are not a chef, you are a writer, and we are
even if you are not a chef, you are a writer, and we are
even if you are not a chef, you are a writer, and we are well fed
And why does anybody have to be just one thing? You're a writer, in your heart. And you're a chef, in your heart. And you're a lot of other people -- a great dad, husband, friend, etc. Life is compliated.