Nostalgia Cooked
July 7, 2026
No. 5

“Hands, please”

Why I walked through an entire farmers market and bought nothing from a farmer, and why that should worry all of us; how I spent twenty years thinking I hated tomatoes when I'd simply never had a good one; and three things worth your time this week, including an app that hands you a new piece of food history every day.

Coffee, then read on.

— Chef Tim

A few weekends ago, I’m walking through a farmers market and realize I am not buying anything from a farmer. I pass a line for donuts. A coffee cart. Handmade soaps. Jewelry. Candles. Dog treats. Someone selling tie-dye shirts. Live music drifts through the square while people catch up with friends over breakfast burritos.

Near the end of my admittedly peaceful walk, I see it. A piece of produce.

Farmers markets weren't created to be festivals. They were created because farmers needed a place to sell food directly to the people who would eat it. For centuries, that was the market's entire purpose. Whether in colonial America or the village markets of France and Italy, you went to the market for ingredients. The market belonged to the people who grew the food.

Not long ago, America seemed to rediscover that idea and birth the farm to table experience. Restaurants like COI, Blue Hill, Chez Panisse, and The French Laundry built their identities around what farmers harvested that week. Chefs proudly introduced diners to the people behind the carrots, peaches, and lettuces. The farmer wasn't hidden behind the menu. They became the story.

Somewhere along the way, that story changed.

Today's farmers markets have become wonderful places to spend a Saturday morning. They're lively, social, and full of small businesses that deserve support. But I can't help seeing we’ve changed the purpose of the market itself.

Every booth selling something other than food grown by a local farmer competes for the same dollars that keep small farms alive. The coffee is local. The candles are local. The donuts are local. But only one vendor spent months praying for rain, watching the forecast, fighting pests, and betting their livelihood on whether a tomato would ripen. This is not to say others are not toiling, it is simply a call to remember purpose.

A few years ago in Georgia an unusually warm winter caused peach trees to bloom early. Then a freeze hit in March. Some growers lost 98% of their crop (an estimated $190 million economic blow) after a full year of pruning, fertilizing, irrigating, and paying labor. All before a single peach could be sold. The same thing happened this year in the mid Atlantic.

Farmers are struggling. Without them this business that I’ve come to love will struggle. So please, next time you go to a farmers market, buy something from the farms and eat it! It will make a difference for all of us that depend on the health of the American farm.

Before service, the whole crew huddles up and somebody tells the story behind the food. Pull up a crate. You're on the line tonight.

I didn't eat my first BLT until I was twenty years old. It wasn't because I hated bacon. Or lettuce. Or Mayo. Or Bread.

It was that fake fruit - the tomato. Turns out, I didn’t really know what a tomato was.

I hated the sad ones. The Sysco cherry tomatoes dumped onto every forgettable side salad. The pale red slicers that somehow found their way onto otherwise great Italian salads and deli subs, the ones that optimistically taste like wet cardboard after a few days in the fridge.

The BLT wasn't invented by one chef or one deli. Like so many great American foods, it slowly evolved. Versions appeared in cookbooks as early as 1903, borrowing from the Club Sandwich before eventually shedding the turkey and becoming something simpler, something that recognized a tomato could, nay should, be the star!

By the 1950s, the combination was so common that Hellmann's was advertising mayonnaise specifically for bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches.

But initials "BLT" wouldn't become part of everyday lexicon until years later.

Fast forward to August 1, 2019. It’s a warm August afternoon in California, and a colleague at Lazy Bear cooks up some fresh BLTs for staff meal. One bite, and I understood what everyone had been talking about.

And that’s the lesson of the day. Don’t judge your sandwhich by the refrigerated imposters masquerading as ingredients.

A BLT isn't something you make because you're hungry. It's something you wait for. It asks you to slow down until tomatoes are in season, until the lettuce was pulled from the ground instead of a plastic clamshell, until the bacon comes from someone who still believes patience belongs in curing meat. When every ingredient is treated with the respect it deserves, the BLT stops being just another sandwich. It becomes a reminder that some of America's greatest foods aren't about adding more, they're about waiting for the moment when simple ingredients are finally at their absolute best.

Top Tip

Humans overcomplicate sandwiches.

You've already spent all morning chasing down perfect tomatoes, good bacon, real mayonnaise, and bread worth toasting. Don't ruin it by uncorking something that wants to be the center of attention.

Grab an ice-cold Mexican Coke in a glass bottle. It uses real cane sugar instead of corn syrup, which gives it a cleaner sweetness that doesn't stick to your tongue. The glass bottle keeps the carbonation sharper and the flavor brighter, so every sip cuts through the bacon and lifts the tomato instead of weighing it down. And that first cold sip is exactly what you want after standing over a hot pan of bacon. Now make me look away while you eat the bacon.

Buell's Booth
Slide in, grab a seat. Every week, one question and one comment straight from the counter. Feel free to shoot me questions anytime!

"Everyone swears charcoal tastes better than gas. Is that actually true, or am I about to buy a grill I'll regret?"

Charcoal is to gas what fresh bluefin tuna is to a can of Sunkist. Technically they're both tuna, but come on. Gas isn't really grilling to me, it's getting a grate hot enough to leave a few marks and calling it a day. Charcoal gets you real heat, real smoke, and that char you actually taste. Now, is gas easier? Sure. Will it cook your dinner? Of course. But if you're asking which one makes the food people remember, it was never close. Buy the charcoal. You won't regret the flavor, even if you curse the coals once or twice getting there.

"Made it all the way through the hot dog story before realizing I've been calling them Coney Islands my whole life without knowing why. Mind blown."

More food history to come in the following weeks! Thank you.

The Nostalgia Table

The second Monday of every month · 7 o’clock · Eight seats. Location shared by post the week of. Subscribers receive first word. Write for a seat, only two left for July 13th.