Hopelessly Devoted to Athens

Athens, Ohio. My love of this place is well documented. I have written previous blogs dedicated to its wonder, I proclaim the goodness of this place to anyone who will listen, and I make pilgrimages to its city limits as often as my wallet will allow. Every time I am there, I fall more and more in love with the place itself. Athens is a small town, lovingly anchored by one of Ohio’s best Universities, and nestled happily in the valleys of Ohio’s portion of America’s older, wiser mountain range. There is something knowing about Athens. It was founded and named after the Greek goddess of wisdom, and for over two centuries it has been cradling young minds, wrapping its loving arms around those who seek beauty and truth, and kissing us until we have fallen madly, hopelessly in love with it. Signed, sealed, delivered Athens, I’m yours.

I began my descent on Saturday, flying South down a county road being touched by the gentle fingertips of the sun for the very first time. To the East it was red and yellow beaming out from behind the shadow cast green hilltops. To the West, the stars were hanging on for dear life, dying slowly and painfully until night would fall again. Morning is the best time to arrive in Athens on Saturday. By the time it was ten minutes until ten o’clock, the Farmer’s Market was already bustling like a beehive on an early-summer day when the smell of blossoms permeates the air. The Farmer’s Market even hums like a beehive. It has its own sounds that meld together making a distinctive song by which it can always be identified. Coins jingle as shoppers drop them into the withered palms of seasoned, Appalachian farmers. Cups full of ice and cool lemonade shake like maracas at the stand where they sell Mediterranean and Middle-Eastern food. The griddle sizzles at the very top of the market where a nice young man in an apron will cook you a burger made with savory locally raised beef and topped with biting, yet creamy Athens Own Cheddar. Crinkled plastic bags are the static undertone, being filled again and again with freshly picked produce and baked goods at every stand. Then there’s the melody, the chatter, the weekly banter between friends and neighbors. There’s a conversation about the difference between grain-fed and grass-fed beef. There’s an explanation of why the sweet potatoes were small this week. There’s a “please” and “thank you” with every purchase. There’s a parent giving in to their child’s request for a Crumbs cinnamon bun, or one of the Wagner’s apples. There are words dancing around you and suddenly you are lost in the song, doing the dance, and being seduced, dazed and dreary in the embrace of late-summer's sun. You are surrounded by color, vivid purple and sleek pearl eggplants, bursting cherry red peppers, terracotta pumpkins, deep emerald chard and kale, and of course, every color of apple known to our region. Cinnamon will cast itself upon the air you’re your lungs crave as you walk past the Crumbs Bakery table. Earthy pesto and tangy asiago caresses you as you glance at the Avalanche booth, full of breads which should be the envy of all other breads for their beauty and style. By the time you pull yourself from this place, you’ll be taken. This is the Athens Farmer’s Market. This is one of my favorite places on this Earth.

I stocked up as I waltzed through the crowd of Athenians and O.U. students alike, picking up a little bit of this here and a little bit of that there. All told, I spent well over $100, which isn’t hard if you trust the depiction provided above. Now, however, I’ve fed myself all week, and have stocked my freezer to the breaking point where heavy frozen tubs of eggplant jam fall out and nearly break my toes. I’ve also canned this week, and am getting myself ready to face head-on my very first real locavore winter. It’s going to be a long season of potatoes, onions, squash and apples, but thanks to my savvy shopping and stocking, I can pull out some almost-like-fresh green beans in February and not feel bad about it, whatsoever.


After my morning, stuffed full of Crumbs Bakery cinnamon buns, gluten-free brownies and some fresh grapes grown right here in Morgan County, it was hard to imagine my day would get any better. Hard to imagine maybe, but this is Athens we’re talking about-there is magic in this place. After watching my Alma mater’s football team take a beating at the mercy of that other college that calls themselves Ohio, my friend Noah and I stopped briefly at the Village Bakery for a little local fuel. His was in the form of two vegan chocolate-chip cookies and a glass of ice-cold, frothy Snowville Creamery milk. Mine was a bit more substantial as a girl cannot exist on micro brews alone. I ordered a bowl of split-pea soup with ham, a cup of coffee and a blueberry-blue corn-corn muffin. If you’ve never heard me sing the praises of Village Bakery muffins before, now is your chance. I like to fancy myself a little bit of a queen in my kitchen, but my muffins have got absolutely nothin’ on the Village Bakery muffins. No matter how hard I try, what recipe I use, modify or change, no matter how organic, local or original the ingredients, I cannot replicate a Village Bakery muffin. They are moist, the way all exceptional quick breads ought to be. They taste like all the ingredients had been carefully selected in order to produce a muffin that leaves your taste buds wondering, “We don’t know what that was, but we loved it.” Blueberry is my favorite. Frozen local blueberries pop like candy, and leave blue stained craters in the tender whole-wheat, bran flecked pastry that surrounds them. If I could write an ode to a muffin, I’d write it for the Village Bakery’s blueberry muffins. Perhaps I just did.



As evening began to fall, and the red and yellow sun of the morning turned into the bleeding orange sun of the afternoon, Noah and I headed to the Ohio Paw Paw Festival at Lake Snowden in Athens County. Just a jaunt down U.S. Route 50/32 West lies an absolutely charming natural wonderland known as Lake Snowden. It is natural serenity hidden just beyond the crest of the highway. A handful of wooded acres surround a human-made lake, and rustic camp sites border its marshy shores. This particular weekend, the lake was invisible, lost behind a city of festival tent tops, food vendor trucks, and a huge, wagon with wheels as tall as me and a team of draft horses to pull little children from one end of the parking lot to the other. It cost us six dollars and a flash of our IDs to get in and receive our pink wristbands which led us directly to the Beer Garden. The Ohio Paw Paw Festival is what a great festival should be. There were no frighteningly mobile carnival rides, held together by rickety popping screws and collapsible at the end of the night. There were no games where if your dart pierces one of a thousand balloons, you get to pick out a small, insignificant toy made from artificially manufactured material in a factory where little Asian girls work twelve hours for ten cents a day. The food was refreshingly local. The beer was pleasingly regional. The entertainment was what summer should be about—little kids running through the grass barefoot, a bluegrass band, and a host of vendors selling everything from homemade soaps and jewelry, to hand-crafted wooden novelties, to Paw Paw seedlings. I may have gotten drunk on the Marietta Brewing Company’s Paw-Paw Wheat, but I was simultaneously drunk on Athens, and the living, breathing culture of the Athenians who surrounded me. Had I had a pair of Emerald green slippers (not Ruby on Saturday, green and white were the only acceptable colors), I’d have clicked my heels together and wished that anytime I did that, I’d be returned to that place, just then, as the sun was setting and I was sleepily taking it all in from the wooden slat of a picnic bench, a local brew in my hand and a wonderful friend by my side. I ended my night with a paper cup full of free Paw Paw Ice Cream from Snowville Creamery. There were no spoons, and therefore I had to use the utensils God gave me, digging my fingers into the cold custard and shoveling it into my mouth before it melted and slid back into my cup. It was childish, and amazing. My fingers and my face were both coated with the sticky remnants after I drank down the last few drips. I laughed, smiled and thought about how much I wish everyone in this world could appreciate the simple joys of things like eating ice cream with your fingers, feeling the power of fellowship within your own community, and the cool breeze of an approaching autumn night. Heaven.


A treat I made with lots of Athens Farmer's Market ingredients. Grilled whole-wheat pizza with sauteed onions and peppers, herb pesto, parmesan and snipped basil and oregano.


What all did I purchase this past weekend? Just in case you were thinking, "What in the world did she spend $100 on?" ...

Snowville Creamery Skim Milk
Snowville Creamery Half & Half
Half a pound of Athens Own Wisconsin Aged Cheddar
Two whole cut-up, pasture raised, all natural chickens
One pound of the same chicken, ground
One pound of grass-fed ground beef
One quart of hazelnuts
Half a peck of Russet Apples
Five pounds of bell peppers
Five pounds of onions
Two loves of Crumbs Bakery bread
One pound of micro-greens (sunflower)
Two pounds of organic green beans
One Crumbs cinnamon roll
One Crumbs gluten-free brownie
Two heads of garlic
Two quart jars of local dark honey
One pound of crystallized ginger
One pound of raw almonds
One quart of Morgan County Grapes
One pound of red, yellow and orange carrots
Two heads cauliflower



I’ll be feeding myself for a long while from the goods I bought on this trip, locally and sustainably grown, and guilt-free. Please visit your local farmer’s market. It is fall, lots of delicious things are coming into season, and your money loves to stay in your community, I promise. Not to mention the fact that local food is love. It is sewn with love, it is tended with love, and it is reaped with love. It is handed down from generation to generation. It is the farmer's daughter and the young field hand. It is two older women working together in a carrot patch. It is a little girl on her father's shoulders learning how to pick apples. It is nourishing to our bodies and souls. Local food is passion, or else why would anyone still rely on such a difficult, unstable way to earn a living? The way the warm dirt feels between your toes as you tredge through the tomoato plants in the garden, that's passion. The way honey grabs your fingers and drizzles slowly back into the jar, until in a pinch of a second you pull it to your mouth and spread it on your tongue, that's passion. This food is much more than just sustenance. It is substance, succulence, and sultry.


A salad I made with Athens Farmer's Market Micro-greens, orange and yellow carrots, green beans and Russet apples, and my own heirloom tomatoes and honey goat cheese.

I want to share this song with you this week, not only because it is appropriately titled "Syrup & Honey," but also because the relationship she is singing about in this song is exactly how I feel about Athens. If I could spend my days lazily drifting about the city, going from place to place, eating, drinking, seeing friends and laughing, and letting Athens have its way with me, I'd do it in a heartbeat. I want Athens to spend its time on me.