March 8, 2013 by Jessica

What a week.

Tax Assessments are inspiring some of my favorite neighbors to threaten migration to suburbs.  I don’t own property, and I’m not even going to pretend to be an authority on anything related to taxes (anything fiscal. a dollar. math) but if there was a mass exodus of  my favorite people, I would die. I mean I’d be so sad. It would be like last of the Mohicans or something, but with no Native Americans and hopefully no scalping. I obviously love Troy for one thousand reasons, but the people are at least in the top 5. Also, if everyone is poor, who will eat at Bacchus and Confectionery with me? Drinking alone makes me sad and reminds me of one night in college where the cab left while I was in the bathroom. Tear.

Writing checks at the farmers market. WHAaaaaaT?! This is rude I think. I mean…some of these “farmers” (not all of them are farmers so I thought I would put that in quotes. I mean you are not a farmer if you make cheese, right? Or catch fish. But you still belong here. So please keep coming.)  drive 5 hours to get here, all uphill, in the snow, and to have someone cause a scene in their area by writing a check that contains cents, is absolutely ridiculous to me. Also, if you are getting something that is sold by the pound, just give a weight or tell them the number of people you would like to feed (or how hungry you are) and let them do work. If you start individually weighing scallops an trying to save 50 cents, you should not be shopping here. You are not getting a deal at the farmers market. You are here to get QUALITY, fresh, local items. Stop trying to nickle and dime the guy who WAS JUST in the ocean catching these delicious things. Who really writes checks?  I mean, a few times I have lost my debit card and have been in the awkward situation of writing a check for 4 dollars, but at least it was at Target. I know that you could say that the “farmer” should be/probably is happy for the business, and should accommodate any form of payment for his goods, but I think it might just come down to common sense that you should get cash out to go to the market. PS. You also held the line up for so long that I lost my appetite and will to live.

On a positive note…..the scallops at the farmers market are always worth the squeeze. Next weekend I am going to get brave and fancy, purchase some mussels, and attempt to make SAFFRON Mussels like my friend Jose serves at his awesome restaurant IN ALBANY, Mingle. I don’t always cross the river, but when I do, it’s for a good reason, and this is a great one. On another positive note, we are getting a twilight Farmers market this summer.

Men are not women, and this is news. I listened to this great podcast, shared it on FB, and no one cared. No one! Not even one person cared. Why? Does anyone not care about this breaking news? I guess not. In case YOU REALLY DO CARE, and just forgot to talk to me about how much you cared, here is the podcast again which I find interesting, and no one else does. You’re welcome.

Oh. I also watched a cable television program called……wait for it…….THE BIBLE, and was really into the whole thing. I mean, not because I am having a religious moment here, but just because the stories are good (and apparently news to me.) As someone who is 25% lapsed Catholic, it was satisfying to fill in some of the informational gaps that being 1/4  almost Catholic has created. It really might be one fifth. But I’m bad at math, and no one cares because I can make scallops like a boss.

It’s the weekend. What is everyone doing?






POST BY Jessica
There was a void in her life. A spicy, meaty void . And the desire to fill that void led her across the river from Albany, to Troy, NY. It was there that she finally found it. Jamaican Beef Patty perfection. And lots of it. Late at night, I Love NY Jamaican Beef patties fueled her shenanigans. During the day, the premade frozen beef patties at the 3rd St bodegas kept her energy up for back to back yoga sessions. Like the Bee Girl from the Blind Melon video, she finally found a place with people like her. Except she’s a ginger. And not chubby. Slowly, it dawned on her. Troy, NY was meant for her and she made the purchase that would ensure she could remain, pockets filled with spiced meat encased in preservative laden dough: white curtains to put in her windows so as not to run afoul of the Troy Historic District’s guidelines. She could breathe easy. This was home. *****************************************************************************************************