Dirty, Gritty, and Absolutely Wonderful: How Carolina Farmers Markets Can Unite

Frances Victoria Ross Byrd, Vicky as we all know and love her, grew up in Lillington, North Carolina amongst tobacco fields, sandy dirt, and bright skies. The oldest of five, my grandmother, my mom’s mother, has exuded maternal love for all of her life; cooking continues to be at the core of her nurturing nature. My childhood is filled with eighteen years of Grandmama’s kitchen taglines such as “cookie dough never killed anyone,” “a little more butter won’t hurt you,” or “let’s make just one more pot of coffee.” These lines fill her sunshine yellow kitchen and bounce off of the family pictures hanging from each wall. While my grandmother may eat a bit too much raw egg, butter, and coffee, her seventy-eight years of cooking experience far outweigh these questionable habits. To name a few of my favorites, she creates perfectly pink salmon, vibrant salads, and yeasty rolls. Yet, above all else, “Farmers Market Food” showcases Grandmama’s expertise.

I coined the term “Farmers Market Food” to describe the ever-changing array of produce that my grandmother and I will scout out during humid, southern summers. Although Grandmama is no longer in Lillington, she lives about an hour away in beautiful Pinehurst, NC. The two of us will drive out of Pinehurst, into the country, and park in the gravel lot outside the makeshift produce stand. Inside this three-walled store is a cornucopia of North Carolina’s agricultural market. Sun-ripened peaches, okra, split peas, collards, tomatoes, and blueberries flood over the wooden crates, begging to be eaten. We buy it all. While checking out, Grandmama makes light, friendly conversation with the store owners and I wonder how many of these conversations she's had before.

Famers Market Food goes back to Neil McKay Ross, my great-grandfather, Grandmama’s father. Mom once told me that my great-grandfather, a lawyer, would often represent people who were unable to pay for legal services. Often times, because Lillington was a rural farm community, clients would leave a basket of fresh produce as payment. Grandmama and her mother would then serve the produce for dinner. Fresh food continued to be a staple and symbol throughout my great- grandfather’s life. Even when he was nearing the end of his life, my mom recalls that he gardened year-round. Every time family was over, he would offer produce from his sandy North Carolina backyard.

I never had the privilege of meeting my great-grandfather, but I know how much he continues to mean to Grandmama and Mom. I like to imagine that he smiles when I eat collards and peas at the dining room table with his daughter. I also like to imagine Grandmama feels closer to her father when I share in this culinary tradition with her; I know she still misses him dearly.

Even now, as I count the seven months that have passed since I last saw my grandmother, I think of Farmers Market Food. Over the summer, I discovered a local grocery that had fresh peas. I went week after week so I could feel closer to Grandmama. Never did I believe vegetables could provide me with a sense of connection, yet I feel decades worth of love in every bite.

Perhaps my love of Farmers Market Food extends farther than the taste though. I admire Grandmama for much more than just her impeccable cooking. My grandmother, a college educated woman, dedicated her life to helping others; she used her career to help children through advocacy. Even now, in retirement, Grandmama is an active member of the League of Women Voters and a strict, proudly blue voter. Even in the midst of her strong social and political engagement, Grandmama finds time to love and support me. She is willing to get in the car and drive four and a half hours for a one-hour concert. She is happy to host me in her guest room for as long as I want. She is proud to invite me on outings with her friends and talk about my accomplishments. She, alongside my mom, is my biggest supporter and advocate.