The Runaway Cook

The morning is still young, my swim suit is on, map in my hand, Norwegian at my side and get with my backpack on his back. We are headed to the beach today, but not until we have picked up our breakfast and lunch at a market that is said to have exceptionally fresh fish and produce.

Just inside a large brick building with wide open walls, is a sea without water. My eyes can't stop staring at the glossy creatures laid out shaved ice. So many suction cups and so many scales! From prawns and shrimp to giant fish and octopus, there's so much of everything, even bins full of snails.  It's hard not to just buy a fish with the sound of the Grand Canal swishing next to us.

Our goal is to make a picnic today so we must press on to the produce. Every stone fruit you could imagine is here. Cherries, nectarines, round peaches, flat peaches, purple plums, and even these amazing little oblong yellow plums. All these Italian grown stone fruits are spectacularly delicious and my absolute weakness, even more than gelato and pasta. The hazy skin of a plum and the bright red of a nectarine beckon my euros and leave my fingers wet and sticky from their sweet juice. Needless to day my breakfast today was a peach.

Men behind the tables yell in multiple languages convincing locals and tourists alike that their food is the best. Remember no touching! Just tell the person behind the table "for today" or "for later" and they will give you what you need. But if you are eyeing what seems to be the perfect peach out in front they'll let you grab it.

Today I'm doing all the talking. Peter and I pick out fruits and I dig through out pooled euros and get what we need. Then the precious bags get slipped into the backpack and we move to the next table.  Everything is going pretty smoothly and then I see them, grape tomatoes on the vine. More red than a tub of grandma's lipstick these little orbs look fantastic. I ask to see them and am offered a taste. The skin taught skin popped from the pressure of my teeth. Sweet and sour juice explodes over my taste buds and I buy two bunches. More than I need but I just can't help myself. Indulging in tomatoes isn't really an indulgence is it?

Next we step into a cheese shop, Casa Del Parmigiano . Here cheese is practically a food group on its own. Hanging in the doorway are long plastic garlands to perhaps ward off pigeons. Two small graying men stand behind two conservative-looking, clear cases of cases filled with rows of cheese. Four bookshelves hold rounds of hard cheeses accompanied by a couple of prosciutto legs hanging from the ceiling. Today Camembert, Asiago, and salami are the winners. Sweet smiles come from behind the counter and accented laughs give way to a ciao as we step out the door.


Our pack is getting full but we have got to get some bread. I'm thinking focaccia or something with a crust that crackles. Just a few steps away is a little bakery with exactly what I want. Peter and I pick out bread perfectly crisp baguettes.


The backpack is full and now it's time for the beach. Until next time my friends! Now where are those tomatoes?