Market Notes
November 13th, 2025
Twas the night before Market Notes, all about the dock,
Not a forklift was rolling, not even one knock.
The orders were stacked in my inbox with care,
In hopes that fulfillment soon would be there.
I sat at my laptop, slumped low in my chair,
A Monstera plant watched me from way over there.
For thirty-odd seasons that big leafy friend
Had witnessed each last-minute market-note blend.
The trucks on my screen were all blinking in red,
A train full of taters was in need of a sled..
Commercial flights circled with citrus and thyme,
Overnight air said “DELAYED” one more time.
We had mesclun and spinach and arugula stacked neat,
With micro greens and baby red romaine at their feet.
salsify and wasabi, and red endive, standing tall,
Kishu mandarins glowing like suns down the hall.
Fingerlings, pee-wees and marbles in stacks,
Creamers and purple spuds watching the tracks.
Rainbow and baby and chunk carrots, too,
Fresh herbs in bunches waiting for you..
Stone fruit still dreaming of summertime heat—
Blenheims, candy-cots, Baby Crawfords dried sweet.
Pawpaws in boxes, still shocked by the cold,
English peas standing straight, brave and bold.
Teardrop tomatoes and heirlooms of size,
Watermelon radish with pink-surprise eyes.
Baby yellow patty pan, green zucchini so small,
Ninja radishes lurking like spies watch us all.
Buddha’s Hand waving from way in the back,
Finger limes plotting their pearly attack.
Yuzu lemons whispering, “We’ll brighten it all,”
While durian quietly stank up the hall.
But the loads were all scattered, the timing askew,
And the cursor just blinked, as if asking, “Now who?”
“I need me a story,” I sighed, rubbing my eyes,
“When trucks, trains, and airplanes pull holiday lies.”
Just then from the yard there arose such a clatter
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the dock door I flew like a shot,
Half hoping the Martian beam had missed us by a lot.
The moon on the yard and the sodium light glow
Made pallets like snowbanks in shimmering rows.
When what to my produce-weary eyes should appear
But a scene and a story you js have to hear..
For Cooler Three’s door was now slightly ajar,
And a glow from within seemed too bright, just by far.
I crept to the opening, heart beating fast,
And eased it enough for a peek inside—but no blast..
At first it seemed still, just a cold, frosty room,
Then a round peeled carrot rolled out of the gloom.
It bumped a Kishu, which nudged a small spud,
Which toppled a stack in a soft veggie thud.
Then fingerlings rolled like a flood through the racks,
Pee-wees went spinning in wild, laughing packs.
Haricots verts tumbled in skinny green streams,
And teardrop tomatoes bounced, joining the teams.
Baby greens slid from their boxes in waves,
Like leafy confetti from winter-lit caves.
Mesclun and frisée, spinach, arugula bright,
Red oak and green oak dove into the night.
Lolla rossa fluttered like holiday lace,
Endive jumped down with a stiff, crunchy face.
Mâche made a snowdrift along the cold floor,
While ninja radishes rolled in for more.
Baby zucchinis swung in from a crate,
Patty pans followed, all eager and late.
Watermelon radish spun round like a top,
And pawpaws just shrugged, then decided to hop.
Buddha’s Hands waved like a citrus parade,
Finger limes scattered green pearls they had made.
White Alba sliced stinkely into the mess,
While durian smirked and created nasal distress .
It wasn’t destruction, it wasn’t a brawl—
It felt like a F&V party with dancing for all.
Yet crates were colliding and boxes askew,
And if QC saw this, we’d all be through.
“HEY!” I called out, as if roots would give an ear,
“I’ve got Market Notes due in and it’s end of the year.
I need charts and numbers about what you all do,
So your healthy goodness, will be known and shine through ”
The air seemed to shimmer; the cold seemed to pause,
As if some unseen hand had lifted the laws.
The veggies stopped rolling, the spuds ceased their slide,
The baby greens settled in leafy green pride.
Then slowly, so slowly, with shivers and squeaks,
The pallets and cartons began shifting in streaks.
They lined up in rows, not for storage or stock,
But marching positions from back to the dock.
Mesclun and Kishus took front-center place,
With spinach and carrots flanking in grace.
Fingerling potatoes formed curves like a float,
Teardrops and heirlooms trimmed every boat.
Haricots verts draped like garlands of green,
Watermelon radish put pink in between.
Blenheims and candy-cots, Baby Crawfords all,
Rose up like a sunrise along the back wall.
Pawpaws and yuzu and Buddha’s Hands waved,
Finger limes sprinkled the edges they paved.
Patty pan, pumpkins, and baby zucchini,
Played the drums so loud it was like saying see me..
Ninja radishes stood as a bright honor guard,
Looking serious, spicy, and not to be jarred..
Herbs crowned it all with a fragrant display—
Thyme, basil, and rosemary shouting, “Hooray!”
At the very last pallet, in proud, spiky grace,
Sat durian, grinning, the star of the place.
And towering above like a banner so tall,
White alba remained on the top of it all..
They’d built a parade, right there in the cold,
A produce procession, defiant and bold.
A story in colors, in textures and scent,
Of everything grown and picked and then sent.
Just then, my phone buzzed with alerts from the map,
And the tracking screen finally snapped out of its nap The train full of taters was moving once more,
The truck with the baby greens neared our front door.
Commercial flights landed with citrus and sage,
Overnight air cut its way through the rage.
That ship full of pawpaws and herbs in the hold
Pinged “ON-TIME ARRIVAL” in letters of gold.
Even that one sketchy route where trailers must crawl,
Showed a truck blinking GREEN as it neared our dock wall.
Inside the cold room, no pallet now flew,
They stood like floats waiting for the marching cue.
I understood suddenly, right to my core,
What this wild vegetable mutiny was for.
They wanted a moment to tell their own tale,
Of storms and delays and each near-frozen rail.
Of drivers and growers and pickers in the night,
Who trusted the process never out of our sight..
They wanted Market Notes not just numbers and charts,
But something that carried their fields in our hearts.
A mystery solved in dream cooler number three,
Where a produce light shone, and set my mind free.
I nodded and whispered, “I think I can write
A Market Notes story that gets this just right.
You line up as floats; I’ll go polish the prose,
We’ll wrap this year’s madness with produce that glows.”
The lights in the cooler blinked once, then shone clear,
As if all the veggies said, “Good—see you next year.”
I eased the door closed with a soft, grateful shove,
Still chilled to the bone, but now warmed up with love.
Back into the office I hurried to type,
While Monstera watched, looking oddly hyped.
I wrote of the chaos, the storm and the fright,
Of carrots and Kishus that danced in the night.
Of fingerlings lost, then found on the way,
Of yuzu and herbs saving someone’s buffet.
Of pawpaws and patty pan, radish and lime,
Of how somehow it all comes together in time.
Of trains, trucks, and planes that defy ice and fog,
Of drivers who live on strong coffee and dog.
Of growers up early and buyers on call,
Of chefs turning madness to joy in their hall.
I finished the ending with one final scroll,
A line that spoke straight from our produce-filled soul.
Then I hit “SEND”on the Notes and went back on-call,:
From our fields, tech,, and forklifts…happy holidays to all.
The answer to last week’s quiz is…Chestnuts… – Congrats to all winners
Visit us at www.culinaryproduce.com Phone 908-789-4700 – Fax 908-789-4702 – e-mail passings@culinaryproduce.com
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© Culinary Specialty Produce, Inc., 2025
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