When artist Vicki Moy requested a haiku to accompany her entry in the upcoming birdhouse auction and reception, christened “There’s No Place Like Home,” it raised a startling question.##M:[more]## Yes, I know her festivity takes place Sunday, September 30, from 3 to 6 p.m., to honor Princeton Community Housing’s 40th anniversary. That triggered question, however, may have no single answer. Living in an apartment in West Windsor, as I have for decades, part of my heart seems still to reside in my Braeburn Drive garden in Princeton Township. Another significant part remains high on that hill above Cannes, where I lived the seasons ‘round in 1987 and ‘88.
A series of haiku went off to Vicki weeks ago. What her request has engendered, however, echoes on all sides: “Where is home?”
This morning, in West Windsor, I discovered an unrealized answer: “Home is where the errands are.” On this impeccable Labor Day weekend, I enjoyed a perfect morning. Of what did it consist? Doing errands. All of which took place in a 12-mile radius from my Canal Pointe apartment.
Today I did not need nearby bank or post office, both of which I could have slotted into my morning’s run without adding to mileage, nor particularly expanding the very brief time involved.
First items on my list led straight to the happening(!) West Windsor Community Farmers’ Market, held every Saturday from 9 to 1 in the Vaughn Drive Princeton Junction train station parking lot. This setting is adjacent to that Alexander Road/Street which I can almost see from my Canal Pointe balcony. The market’s parking lot was already bursting, although I arrived before 9:30 a.m. Fathers and mothers pushed strollers, as leashed dogs of picture-perfect breed strained at vivid leashes. A band was tuning up — testing instruments and microphones before leaping into golden oldies from my parents’ era.
Mums’ bright eyes and faces reminded of that which I would rather forget — it is almost fall. I noted the availability of my favorite color, burgundy wine, although by no means prepared to relinquish my healthy red geraniums.
Hot coffees and cold smoothies beckoned to one side; sturdy and savory Village Bakery (Lawrenceville) breads from the other. No signs were needed for the basils, organic and otherwise. Their fragrance filled the aisles, washing over the early crowd like a green shower. First apples fairly leapt from pale baskets. Peaches blushed on every side.
Lacy red and green lettuce seemed to wave in the shade of Terhune Orchards’ awnings. I never did find those grapes. But that’s the glory and the challenge of farmers’ markets, and what I have loved best about them ever since Cannes: what you see, what you get, is what’s in season, and that’s that.
Quail eggs and potpies from Griggstown’s farm lured to my left, as I chose a wildflower bouquet at Catalpa Farms. I know from two weeks ago that this calico array will last at least 14 days. They no longer offer the tiny pungent basil that mimics evergreen branches; lemon parsley beckoned instead. Catalpa’s ruddy warm tomatoes were feistier than ever. Their peppers were simply enormous, multicolored as though the wee folk had spilled enchanted paints all down their solid sides.
As in Provence markets, everyone was in such a good mood. Many fathers and sons seemed be doing the choosing this morning. Some munched on bread as others sampled vegetables new in size and/or color.
I met Giancarlo, jovial maitre d’ of Tre Piani, at a cornucopia of peppers. I teased him about scouting for Jim (Weaver, chef/owner of Tre Piani and head of the Central Jersey Convivium of Slow Foods.) Giancarlo insisted that I take home fish from the Shore purveyors, with which I was delighted to comply. Six gigantic scallops cost less than $10; will marry well tonight with luminous corn, whose pale silk cascades resemble Rapunzel’s long golden hair.
I completed my food errands, save grapes, heading out a smidgen after 10 a.m. I gleefully took back roads to West Windsor Library — closed for Labor Day, but their book drop in working order. I returned “Living Well is the Best Revenge,” Calvin Tomkins’ slim tribute to Gerald and Sarah Murphy.
I have just relished an exhibition of their groundbreaking expatriate art and glowing Antibes life up in Williamstown, MA. On errand days to Nice from Cannes, I used to drive along their Plage La Garoupe (think, Tender is the Night), wondering where Villa America might have been. Several weeks ago, I’d special ordered that mis-titled book from WW Library. (No one was more generous, less vengeful even to quixotic friends such as Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Dos Passos, and Picasso, than Sarah and Gerald.) I had to re-read it now, four decades later. And share the book with friends who joined my Berkshire pilgrimage to the Clark’s Unknown Monet drawings and pastels; the Murphys at Williams College Art Museum; to say nothing of Mass MoCA’s startling new installations in resurrected, wild, and irresistible North Adams.
I decided to drive through still extant cornfields that used to house pig families, over to Quaker Bridge Road and Glendale Wine Store, which honors France as I do. In no time, I discovered oversized bottles of Cotes du Rhone for the US 1 Poets Cooperative, who meet to critique at my apartment on every month’s first Tuesday.
Realizing that I had not driven on a highway all morning, I was not about to break the charm. By way of back routes through Carnegie Center, I wound my way home with forest on one side, two swans marking my turn at the pond. Indigo-flecked jays blessed my car near the bank, while an orange and black monarch butterfly made its jaunty way to Mexico.
On Saturday mornings, we do not have access to all four classical stations. Even so, throughout my errand run, I had been wrapped in the Baroque. Almost like driving the Peage to the sounds of Radio Monte Carlo. Did even the basil of Nice’s Marche aux Fleurs perfume my little Renault as does this hefty bunch from West Windsor’s Farmers’ Market? Nice’s tomatoes and eggplant were no more vivid nor flavorful than this local provender. (However I could buy and savor both in January, along with primroses, des primveres.)
Until I started beginning my Saturdays at West Windsor’s Market, though, I was convinced that only in France did the fragrance of food reach around corners, compelling feet and francs.
All morning long, I have not set foot(e) in a mall nor tires on highway, until this momentary crossing. Ahead lies the welcome ritual of flower arranging; the crisping of bacon to add to tomatoes in my new favorite sandwich — BBT (Bacon, Basil and Tomato).
It’s still so early — next step, down to Princeton Canoe and Kayak for either the last kayaking of summer or the first of fall. And all of this richesse in our West Windsor. No wonder the New York Times salutes this market under the headline, “West Windsor, The Town that Tries to Keep It Country.”
