Farmers Markets and Francy Sundays

If you follow us on Instagram, you may have noticed that I’ve been hanging close to home lately. And while I’m counting down to the next getaway (NOLA in 5 days), I’m also luxuriating in the opportunity to be cozy at home and exercise some of those rituals I adopt from my travels. It’s my way of bringing my travel experiences back with me – a little memory souvenir.

While I’m home, my weekends revolve around the local farmers’ market and our favorite breakfast rituals. I’m very lucky that my neighborhood farmers’ market easily holds it own against any French or German market I’ve seen. Farmers’ markets are something I loved far before I ever set foot outside of my own country, and I can’t help think of those crowded sidewalks, gorgeous veggies, and hand-written signs when I’m picking out my food on an early sunny morning.

The food I choose at the market becomes what I cook in the coming week. This means we eat seasonally and simply, relying on the peak flavors of the market. During the week, baby bok choy, thick-cut grass-fed bacon, and tiny onions become a stir fry reminiscent of my grandmother’s Nasi Goreng. Over-easy eggs get stacked onto roasted asparagus and toasted baguette with fresh butter. Tender butter lettuce becomes the start of Salade Niçoise. Familiar Tulsa-grown and raised ingredients become tasty little memories of meals eaten abroad. We happily revisit flavors that were once foreign to us, but are now at home in our Oklahoma kitchen.

Saturdays start early and quickly as I force myself out of bed in order to secure the “good veggies.” It’s a busy day full of errands, plans, and projects. I get things done and cross out list items. Sundays are the exact opposite. They are intentionally lazy and slow and wonderful. Because they often start with coffee and crepes, we call them Francy Sundays.

Usually Travis has a hockey game, which he plays early that morning, then comes home to wake me with perfectly brewed coffee. After years of trying to recreate those delicious cups of French and Kölsche coffee, he gets very close. If it’s an especially great morning, he might grind and brew the Mountain Thunder Kona Coffee beans, which we bought ourselves for Christmas.

On mornings that Travis doesn’t play hockey, I make crepes. On our return from our Paris vacation, I ordered a crepe pan from Le Creuset and set out to cook some Montmartre memories.

While Travis is still asleep, I gather the ingredients and start prepping, skipping the overhead light and working with the early sunlight coming through the kitchen windows.

The pan gets put on the stove to warm up and the batter gets mixed and rested. The fruit from the market gets sliced. Berries and peaches get sprinkled with brown sugar. Apples are mixed with cinnamon and sugar. Strawberries might get balsamic vinegar. Heavy cream is whipped and syrup is warmed.

Crepes are quick work, both in street stalls and in the kitchen. I make fluid motions of ladling the batter onto the hot buttered pan and spreading it evenly to the rim as it starts to bubble, then waiting a few seconds before flipping it over. For a moment, it smells like a warm and sweet French creperie.