I lovermont. It is an amazingly beautiful state that has laws against businesses compromising its beauty with billboards and other commercial signage. “I can’t find anything,” is how my father would describe it. He was used to living in a place where signs compete like they’re after the hottest item at an auction. I remember visiting once where I discovered grocery shopping meant going to three different stores within a 5 mile radius to get the best in quality AND value. I’m betting what he saved on the food bill was more than halved by the extra he spent on gas.
But my dad did know good food, which brings us back to Vermont. One summer my family spent some time there, renting a little cottage surrounded by raspberry bushes. My parents came to visit at the peak of the season, and the owner of the place told us to eat our fill. I found some recipes for raspberry jam, and gave it a go. My father was astounded by the flavor, amazed at its freshness. It was fun to watch him sitting with his grandson, enjoying toast with jam. He’d get that same jolt of surprise with every bite while the little guy slowly repeated mm-mmmm. We knew the secret had to be the span (or lack thereof) of time between harvest and cooking.
Eating local wasn’t the buzz at that time, but I can say the quality we discovered in our sweet delicious raspberry jam would even supersede anything we could drive down and buy at the nearby Ben and Jerry’s (and that’s saying a lot). Three generations sitting around the kitchen table, reaching for the Mason jar, and savoring the pleasure of peak perfection is about as local as you can get.
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