To my surprise, a lot can be learned at a farmers’ market. I rarely go to these open-air, health-food festivals, but last Thursday I thought I’d “kill two kidneys with one stone” as they say. My brother, Jess, called to say his wife, Marti, had cooked me a lamb roast and they were coming from Powell to the farmers’ market. Hey, I’d have met them at the city landfill for free, cooked food.

I spotted them at the furthest booth, where I made small talk as they browsed, mentioning how I’d made bacon that morning for the first time ever. For some reason, they all found that incredulously amusing. Guessing how to best prepare bacon, I had fried it with butter in a pre-heated skillet, apparently a no-no.

Jess, who could have been a master breakfast chef had he not fallen hard for his first love, roofing, told me how to make perfect bacon every time involving only paper towels and a microwave. He spoke the truth, because that next morning I ate bacon and eggs until my gut bulged so grotesquely, I took the day off work.

Moseying along, the next booth was manned (or “womaned” for P.C. sake) by an extremely likeable (meaning she laughed at my jokes and said she reads all my columns) dark-haired, Powell gal hawking cooking spices and kale. I’m not a big fan of leafy greens, relating how I’d once tried kale for salad, but the bitter taste had turned me off and back into the loving arms of Marie Callender.

Suddenly all three of them ganged up and rattled off a dozen different ways kale can be enjoyed in many dishes as a healthy additive. Recalling the old adage, “The road to kale is paved with good inventions,” I bought a bag of kale to sprinkle on my Häagen-dazs that night.

 Next they stopped at a booth with various beans, peas and beets. The guy gave me a sample of his peas, which I munched while interjecting how it brought back bad memories of my gardener-extraordinaire father making us kids husk corn, snap beans and shell peas deep into the evening.

These peas were indeed tasty so I bought some for a healthy snack when I’m out of Ruffles with Ridges. Eavesdropping on their conversation about the origins of his beets, I bemoaned, “And that conjures sour memories of working on Roger Slack’s beet farm (Louise Slack’s great lunches aside) my first summer in Cody at 16. Basically, you show me any vegetable and I’ll show you a painful association with work. I’ve never bought into that ol’ “hard work never killed anyone” baloney.

Hoping to move Jess and Marti along towards my ultimate lamb goal, I glanced over at a booth that did appeal to me … MEAT! But these steaks and burgers were advertised as “yak meat.” Seriously? Why, you coulda knocked me over with a feather duster. I didn’t think there was any such animal, always assuming yak was only a humor catchword coined by Johnny Carson as “Karnac the Magnificent.”  

Watching on our gigantic console, black ‘n white as a teen, I laughed myself silly every time Carson would answer Ed McMahon with, “Mmm, wrong again, yak-breath.” As a young, attention-seeking clown, I wore that line out around town and with my buddies at the local pub. “Doug, you’re buying the next round, aren’t you?” “Mmm, wrong again schnapps breath,” I’d retort. Ya see, it was important to deviate from the yak noun occasionally to fit the situation.

For instance, if I was in the bathroom and someone would try to rush me with, “Aren’t you about done in there?” I might bark, “Wrong again, urinal-cake breath!” But “yak breath” was always the staple line. Further stealing from Carson, when someone made a derisive crack, I’d admonish, “May a crazed goose fly up your sister’s wedding dress.”

But back to the market we go. Walking away with yak patties and a half-pound of yak jerky, my hands were now full and my pockets nearly empty on a day deceptively billed as “Free food Thursday.” I fought the urge to buy some yak steaks, repeating to myself, “Yakity yak; don’t look back.”

Finally we arrived at the parking lot to secure my Marti-made mutton. Sure enough, Marti had a little lamb; its fleece was white as snow. I’m joshing of course; actually Jess handed me a large hunk of lamb and its fleece was golden brown, as were the potatoes, all of it making my mouth water like Pavlov’s dog. So off my dog, Trina, and I drove, munching jerky all the way.

You might assume this trip to the farmers’ market has changed my dietary habits and I’ll now make green vegetables a staple of my diet. To that I would mutter, “Mmm, wrong again, broccoli breath!”