Fruits and nuts

The Ohio foods I brought home are pretty much gone, and it's time to revel in the South all over again.

The Georgia growing season is winding down, slowly but surely. There was no arugula at the farmer's market this week, and the tomatoes were a mere shadow of their former selves. There were no figs, either--but luckily, the farmer who brought them last time overheard Julie and me talking about them and quickly joined the conversation. He said he might be picking a few more figs this week, and took my phone number in case he does. Fingers crossed!

I was very pleased to find one of these amusingly named fruits at a local Kroger store. I don't care much about the supposed ultra-healthiness of this particular avocado. I do care that it's grown in Homestead, Florida. It is freakish in size; one of them is big enough for a whole batch of guacamole.

I was even more pleased to find a quart of muscadine grapes (grown in south Georgia by these slightly whacked-out folks) in the produce department. I think the season for muscadines and scuppernongs is just starting, so I should be able to partake of them multiple times. If anyone has any beloved family recipes that use giant weird Southern grapes, please share them! I'm a novice with these. I'm used to cooking with Concords.

The title of this post promised nuts. And indeed: PEANUTS. They are everywhere, both raw and roasted. I am tempted to make a frozen peanut butter custard pie (which would taste really good at this time of year, when the weather--and especially the interior of the car--is hot enough to smelt iron), but I have been awfully snacky and decadent-minded lately and don't want to give myself that much of an opportunity to screw up.

Speaking of my health, the s.o. and I bought a pair of cheap pedometers. His doesn't seem to be working right ("I walk like a ninja," he jokes), but mine has logged 843 steps this afternoon. What I'm really curious about is how many steps I take when I'm cooking. A friend told me that a bartender he knows wore a pedometer during an evening shift and logged 6 miles. So tip your bartenders, folks.