Sloppy Joes and Pulled Chicken. The Green Grape Report.
The Real Reason I Go To Christmas Bazaars
I look forward to the craft shows every year, not because I’m hunting for something unique to hand down to the grandchildren, but because I know the crafters are trying to make enough money to pay for their own Christmas.
The best thing I ever found at one of these bazaars wasn’t festive at all. It was a set of dish rags. None of them were Christmas colors, unless you count the brown one, which might resemble the dirt floor under the manger. But they’ve lasted years. They work. I use them every day.
Still, that’s not the real reason I go.
I go for the food. Sloppy Joes. Pulled chicken sandwiches. Both on the cheapest white buns money can buy. Served on paper plates, with a handful of bagged chips and a cold canned Coke.
I like to show up late, after everything’s been simmering for hours in slow cookers. By then, the flavors have deepened. The Sloppy Joe mix thickens just enough to stay on the bun instead of slopping off at the first bite.
At Community United Church of Christ, they started the day with 14 pounds of Sloppy Joe and countless chicken parts. When I arrived, my Sloppy Joe was third from the last, and the chicken was minutes away from turning into nothing but leftover warmth in the slow cooker.
It felt like an old Wednesday night prayer meeting with a covered-dish supper. Only it was Saturday. The only prayer was from the pastor standing quietly in the corner before the doors opened.
I had planned to get seconds across the street at the Mark Twain bazaar in Westerville North. But their food was just trucks. Nothing homemade. Nothing with soul. I couldn’t go back to the church. They were sold out.
Most of the joy in this food comes from nostalgia. Everyone has eaten Sloppy Joes. Most people have tried pulled chicken. But this tastes like home — or at least like someone else’s home you’re welcome in.
My Uncle Bud, a retired Air Force colonel, made the best Sloppy Joes I’ve ever tasted. He’d fill a deep enameled pot with ground beef, spices, and other secret ingredients he never shared. It fed all the kids and most of the adults at any family gathering. He never measured anything—just knew when it was right.
That’s the kind of memory this food brings back. That’s why I go.
I know of at least four more Christmas bazaars coming up beginning next weekend at Westerville Nazarene Church on Cherrington. They’ll even have dancers from the Leap of Faith Dance Company.
I just hope they have Sloppy Joes.
Food Review by Gary Gardiner
Everywhere
Brand – All of them
Price – About the same
PLU Code – NA
The Review
Autumn Crisp grapes are everywhere. Walk into nearly any grocery store in Westerville and you’ll see them, bagged, stacked in two-pound clamshells, or packed three pounds at a time, their pale green skins glowing under bright lights. Their prices hover around two dollars a pound, give or take seventy-five cents, depending on the store or packaging. Compare that to other specialty grapes—Cotton Candy, Moon Drops, or exotic imports—that often cost double. Autumn Crisp isn’t trying to be niche. It’s the default.
This isn’t by accident. Autumn Crisp has become the go-to grape of fall. Big, seedless, and incredibly sweet, it hits the palate with a loud crunch and a sugar rush that seems designed for the American fruit aisle.
I won’t go into detail about the grapes except to mention that the bag I bought at Kroger on Maxtown contained a single stem weighing nearly two pounds. They are very sweet, incredibly crisp, and about the size of ping pong balls.
The difference in Westerville is where to buy. Kroger has bagged green grapes at $1.99, Meijer at $2.00, and Market District with two two-pound clamshells for $6.98.
However, the grapes at Meijer and Market District have too many brown spots. Kroger has none.
So where did Autumn Crisp originate? Not just from the vineyard, but also from the lab. And how did this grape shift from an experiment to a seasonal favorite, claiming a spot on the produce calendar once dominated by apples, pears, and whatever remained of summer’s harvest?
The answer isn’t just about taste. It’s about science, marketing, and a quiet revolution in how fruit is made and sold in America.
More about that next week.
The Westerville News is a reader-supported publication by Gary Gardiner, a lifelong journalist who believes hyper-local reporting is the future of news. This publication focuses exclusively on Westerville—its local news, influence on Central Ohio, and how surrounding areas shape the community.
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