plates of green and orange

the Carrboro market with Sean, Kass, Karen, and Kevin

Leaving Atlanta incredibly early on Saturday a few weeks ago, Karen, Kevin, and I pulled into the incredibly local farmers’ market of Carrboro, North Carolina around noon to meet my sister Kassandra and her boyfriend Sean (here, at left).

(Note: This is the seventh of eight posts from this road trip. You might start at the first, second, third, fourth, fifth, or sixth post.)

We found crowder peas and field peas,

peas at the Carrboro farmers' market

beautiful tomatoes, peppers, and cucumbers proudly displayed in individual containers from one of the many farmers in the allowed fifty-mile radius of this town within Chapel Hill that set up at the market.

tomatoes at the Carrboro market (Knot Farm)

Walking over to the Weaver Street Market food co-op, Kassandra and Sean looked for groceries (they both live in a neighboring area),

Kass and Sean

and Karen found the Carrboro raw truck to begin neutralizing the roadfood of the past week.

Carrboro raw

Carrboro is generally good at nurturing health, and Kass and Karen were serious about filling their plates with good food as we sat near happy dogs hoping for dropped food and children learning how to walk,

Kass, Karen, our plates from Weaver St Market

(this is Karen’s plate) before hugging Kassandra and Sean goodbye and continuing on to an underground Indian dinner in Washington, D.C.

Karen's plate of good things from Weaver Street market

That night, we arrived at an Indian dinner orchestrated by a Jain,

plate at the underground Indian dinner

that one of my favorite people, Nina, told us about (I surprised her here with the camera flash),

Nina at the underground Indian dinner

—and learned that Nina has different spices in her spice box than our host. I actually learned a great deal about making a spice box of one’s own as a way to indicate heritage.

a Jain spice box

The courses continued, interspersed with commentary on the background on this cooking style, but I was too happy to listen, surrounded by very good friends,

underground Indian dinner

underground Indian dinner

and knowing their friendship, like the bread passed throughout, are what anchors me, wherever I am.

love the texture of the bread

Pausing to remark that sometimes this city surprises us, Karen, Kevin, and I headed back to the quirky Tabard Inn, where we prepared for the final leg of the drive back to Brooklyn…

Karen and Kevin in D.C. for the secret underground Indian dinner

Related posts:

  1. green eggs and California
  2. green on and off the island
  3. Drowsy Green Goddesses