Phinney & Hayton

With the kids shipped off to summer camp, Darling Husband and I embarked upon a week-long date night (interrupted by work, sigh). We had only one "required" activity; the Microsoft Orchestra concert at the Ballard Locks. Sunshine, and appreciative audience and prime parking make this a perennial favorite, though the picnic blanket looked kind of empty with only the big man sprawled on it.

But traffic this weekend was extra-messy with Pride Parade snarls in the north end, bigger than ever this year on the tails of the New York law (I love New York!), and a Sounders game to the south. We managed to get there before the downbeat--barely. And the trip back home was looking to be just as bad. Ugh.

Darling husband earned his stripes as he steered the car off the clogged main drag onto peaceful Phinney, parking next to the Mecca of chocolate, Theo. There, we browsed samples of favorites, old and new (the toasted coconut was lovely, but orange still has a place in my heart, and fig fennel makes Darling Husband's heart got pitty-pat). The only thing that truly tempted was the closeout of their 74%. When we re-emerged, we saw banner flying a block off for the Fremont Sunday Market. Given my proclivity for farmer's markets, it bore investigating.

What we discovered was not a farmer's market, but a hodge-podge of artists, ethnic food carts, psychics and antiques dealers, selling everything from homemade ice cream sandwiches to old postcards to exquisite handmade jewelry (the coral piece was tempting but too pricey) to distressed furniture and more. The crowd was a pleaser too, for those who indulge in that sport. And there, in a positively un-funky white easy-up, was a very normal-looking man selling just one thing: local, transitional strawberries.

As I chatted with the amiable fellow from Hayton Farms in Mount Vernon, I could smell them. As I checked my pint ($3) for fuzzies, I could feel that even chilled, they were tender, like the berries we pick in our garden, not those crunchy things that arrive in clamshells. No, these were real berries, and I needed more than a pint.

The half-flat we scored has so far yielded two batches of jam: a big batch of just plain strawberry, and a smaller batch of strawberry-chocolate-balsamic. I'm thinking the remaining pints will become a third batch of strawberry mint, since Little One picked a bunch of chocolate mint last week, and it's been waiting for a pot to jump into. Or maybe I'll run out and grab a bit of rhubarb (it's been a good year for rhubarb locally) and do that instead. I'll let you know.

All this, very local; indeed, the chocolate and the berries both scored on the same street, in the middle of the universe.