Sunday Market


Raw milk, a liquid so exceptional it deserves a prettier name, maybe even one that doesn’t include the word “milk”, since it tastes nothing like the stuff we buy in the supermarket.  I’m not a milk drinker, never was, but when I can get this milk, I rush home, pour a glass, drink it as though it is an elixir and think:  so this is why the word “wholesome” was invented.


Lentillons, small brown – although they’re referred to as pink – lentils from the Champagne region of France. They’re notable for their color and sweetness, both a consequence of their famed terroir; I’m hoping they’ll be notable as an afternoon snack – I’ll let you know. 


Half a multi-grain bread (my friend Helene’s got the other half), a petit pain with raisins, which looks less like a roll than the little bread of its name, and couple of English muffins handmade by Michael, The Muffin Man.


And, cheese, of course.  I bought a soft, spreadable – spoonable, even – goat milk faisselle, a fresh cheese which has been drained of its whey, and an aged chevre with a crust that looks like it was plucked from some fossil find.  That’s it in the picture.  This cheese started life about ten months ago as a pyramid of soft, pristinely white goat cheese; sometime this week it’s going to finish its life grated over pasta.

Dorie Greenspan