Outside of Cambridge there's a small town called Ely, famous mostly for its cathedral, which is gigantic and makes you wonder how anybody built something so tall in the twelfth century. I think Ely should also be famous for its fresh-made donuts, but they probably haven't been around for eight hundred years, and they seem pretty secular. Anyhow, Ely used to be surrounded on all sides by water, but now that the fens have been drained, it's a fertile, green area that's full of farms. The farmer's market, held on Saturday mornings twice a month, offers carrots and potatoes with clods of earth still on them, brussels sprouts still attached to the stalk, various forms of savory pastries (which I haven't gotten used to, I have to say) plus homemade butter and bread and, if you're so inclined, live chickens. When I spotted the chickens, I assumed that you could choose one for your dinner, which seemed a little, well, direct, but in fact the whole lot was up for sale, so that if you wanted you could bring them all home and set them up in the backyard.
We made off with a respectable haul: potatoes, a swede, kale, bread, butter, a chicken (for dinner; not still wearing its feathers), and some honey. I had a donut -- fresh out of the fryer, dipped in sugar; Tom tried venison sausage with onions and redcurrant jam. Then we met the local duck who was ambling about and half hissing at anyone who got too near, and went for a drink (not with the duck).
It's been raining for the rest of the weekend, the sort of weather that makes you want to stay in and read and cook things, which is exactly what we've been doing. Death of a Salesman, Nigella bread, N. Slater potato & celeriac bake. And later, haggis, in celebration of Burns. This time I think I'll actually have to eat it. I'll try not to think too much about what it is.
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