More Rare and Deliberate

Adams, generally means Poughkeepsie.  Adams Fairacre Farms has been a constant in my life since the days my grandmother would shop there when I was a toddler.  I am also aware of the Adams in Wappingers.  Passed by that a few times.  But I really have no idea where the Adams in Kingston in located.  The great AI has spoken.  It is a few minutes closer on the GPS and before long I was encouraging my younger one to tell me what Waze was saying, now that I’d crossed Main St.

I was probably doing 45 in a 50 and the guy behind me wasn’t happy, but I opted for acknowledging the fact that the rain was pouring down and the wipers were flapping aggressively and still not keeping up with the pace of the deluge.  We drove passed a turn off, near where the Wallkill heads east and I immediately recognized that I ought to have turned right.  Sure enough, the Waze app made its “you made a mistake” noise shortly thereafter.  Coming down the hill into Rosendale I needed to hit the rainy breaks hard as there were cops and a line of traffic up ahead.  People were being trafficked across the street into the Pickle Festival.  I’d heard of this and it seemed even less appealing now, considering a visit in the rain. 

The GPS apps are great until they aren’t.  We got led into some office parking lot, spun ourselves around, got back on a highway, sped down to the first exit, turned off, returned back on and then, were able to make the originally intended turn and finally, wipers cutting back and forth with the rain we pulled into the big Adams parking lot.   I dropped the kids off by the door, parked the car as close as I could and darted back across the lot in the rain.

Adams is a pleasure to shop in.   Everything is labeled with handmade drawings that make everything seem more rare and deliberate.  I need to get a turkey.  I may also get a ham.  I have a vague notion of a vegan dish which I’ll need to make for the older one.  I’d imagined making cauliflower and I may still.  But for now I’m standing beside a large pile of rutabagas and I’m trying to remember what they taste like.  Not far away a is another stand full of turnips.  These root-like names all sound like tastes that allowed our forefathers to subsist through the winter.  They also sound like roots that were never available in Beijing.  I’ll figure out how to make something with rutabagas and turnips then.  Over at the butcher I compare a few bags and help myself to a twenty-eight pound fresh killed bird that is significantly larger than anything I’d ever have been able to find in Beijing.   The check-out is a lot more merciful, as well.  

Sunday, 11/24/19