I bombed through my local farmer’s market if for no other reason than to remind myself of how much their vegetables kick the shit out of my own. Which makes sense; these beauties are grown on a farm by professional farmers who spend their entire day raising them. Because it’s their job. ‘Cause they’re farmers. Are we clear on this?

I can’t hate on these heaps of lush produce, they look and taste incredible. And eating someone else’s vegetables is really the greatest form of gardening flattery. I picked up some colorful carrots, an onion, and one giant sweet potato all with the little root tips left on. Nice touch. 

I’ve been kind of indifferent to carrots my whole life. At best they were a low-value lunch snack trade or a vehicle for Hidden Valley ranch dressing. They typically came in a beat up plastic bag, looking like they’d been suffocated and bounced around the trunk of someone’s car. (They probably were… gives me the chills). But these babies are something entirely different. Check the color! 

Some had a blood-orange look, others lemon-lime. And of course there were some in classic orange. But they didn’t taste like fruit (they’re carrots dummy). Instead, they tasted like carrots… on steroids. Unlike the depressing nubs of my youth (I’m still talking about carrots here) these had a crisp, fresh, full flavor.

I might roast em. I might even defile them with some crappy ranch dressing. I might snack on them as is. And I might use the peels for a Halloween wig… for a costume…. of an annoying comedian… named… Carrot Top. Ugh, sorry.