The Rhythm of Shelling


Danielsville Farmers' Market

Yesterday, Mama and I visited the Farmers’ Market in Danielsville, about five miles down the road. I recently saw an ad for the new market in the local paper so we decided to check it out. The market is located at 715 General Daniels Avenue. Hours are Tuesday 4-7 p.m. and Saturday 8 a.m. to 1 p.m., with the intention of opening 7-days a week in the future once a planned facility is completed.


We arrived right at 4 p.m. and some vendors were still getting set up. Everyone was super friendly and glad to tell you about their produce and how it was grown. I didn’t count, but I’m guessing there were six vendors in attendance; I understand that more are typically present on Saturday. While not a huge market, there was plenty available, and I was still tempted to buy too much. Besides, I prefer a smaller market where I can get to know the person who raised my food; isn’t that the essence of eating local? I think so.

Some of the fabulous canned items at the market.
We bought green beans, purple hull peas, yellow squash, tomatoes, cucumbers, okra, a little corn, and peaches. Mama also got a beautiful hanging basket and some pear jam. I bought some canned collards and pecans from the same little lady that sold Mama the hanging basket and pear jam. She had a nice selection of beautiful canned items that she “put up” herself, and the pecans that I bought were from her trees this past fall. She shelled them by hand, vacuumed sealed the nuts, then froze them. I have already tried them, and they are delicious and fresh tasting – so much better than any nuts I’ve bought at the store lately. Local, raw pecans – does it get any better than that?

Well maybe . . . Last night I shelled the peas and snapped the green beans, and Mama is cooking both this afternoon, along with the squash and some gluten free cornbread. And iced tea, of course. I’m preparing the okra, and I’ll slice the tomatoes and cucumber.This evening, we will all gather at Mama’s to share this delicious, southern meal.

This is the kind of food I grew up on; in summer it was fresh from the garden, and in winter, we ate from what Mama had canned or frozen the previous season. When I sat down to shell those peas last night, it was a spiritual experience. The rhythm of shelling came back instantly, and I was immediately taken back to my childhood, sitting outside beneath the sycamore tree. My siblings and I, seated in lawn chairs, along with the huge mounds of fresh-picked garden produce, formed a circle that would not be broken until the job was done. Periodically, we delivered dishpans full of the shelled peas, butter beans, and corn to Mama who worked in the tiny, hot kitchen washing the produce, sterilizing the jars, and “putting up” what Daddy had grown and we had shelled and shucked. It’s a very fond memory. Especially since I was seated in LaMama’s air-conditioned family room, watching television, and preparing just enough food for our dinner tonight. Nothing like the Volkswagen-sized allotments we handled in our youth, while battling heat, humidity, and the ever-swarming South Georgia gnat. J

That’s the latest from my country life. Wishing you well, as always.
~Pat

My bowl of purple hull peas, almost ready for cooking.

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