Remembering Don Cinzori

From the very beginning of Inn Season Café in 1981 until the day I sold it in 2002, working with local organic farmers wasn’t just a choice—it was our way of life. Our commitment to sourcing the best local produce shaped the spirit of the café and, in turn, helped foster a culture of real food in Royal Oak.

In 1990, we started the Inn Season Organic Growers stall at the Royal Oak Farmers Market, working with Hampshire Farms and a couple of other organic pioneer farmers. That initiative sparked a trend. Soon, more local organic farmers realized the market could be a sustainable outlet for their harvests. Since then, there’s never been a weekend at the Royal Oak Farmers Market without at least a few organic growers selling their beautiful, dirt-kissed bounty.

Every Saturday like clockwork, I would arrive at the market around 7:30 or 8 a.m., wheeling my father’s old Toyota pickup into position. I’d usually fill it—twice—with cases and bushels of fresh produce, spending the majority of our produce budget, around $1,500, to stock the café’s coolers for the week ahead.

The farmers were already well into their day, most of them having started in the early hours, sometimes as early as 2:30 a.m. As we greeted each other, we’d exchange stories. Mine were usually about the restaurant—the latest dish on the menu, the struggle to keep the café running smoothly, or customer reactions to the vegetables they had grown. The farmers, in turn, talked about the weather (always a Michigan wildcard), shucking peas while watching TV before bed, and the ever-rising cost of seeds and labor.

Through these conversations, I learned. I listened. I absorbed the language of farming—not just in words, but in rhythm, mood, and presence. These folks were tough and passionate, growing living food in unpredictable conditions, often against the odds. And their dedication shone through in every bite.

Around 1998, a new presence set up at the market: Cinzori Farms. It didn’t take long for Don and Donna Cinzori to become a cornerstone of the community. They were among the few organic farms in Michigan that had cracked the commercial supply chain, providing Whole Foods Market’s Midwest region with the lion’s share of temperate-climate-grown vegetables.

Every time I entered Whole Foods Markets in the region, I was greeted by banners of Don and Anthony overlooking entrances and the produce they grew. Those images always brought a smile, reminding me of our warm friendship and the countless stories shared over years of Saturday mornings.

Going to Don’s booth each week became one of the great joys of those long Saturdays. After shopping, hauling, cooking, and serving for the next sixteen hours, his produce made it all worthwhile. Don had a special touch. Each season, he chose the best heirloom varieties and stuck with his proven stars: buttery sweet spinach, napa cabbage, giant kohlrabi, and succulent Lacinato kale.

He didn’t just follow trends—he set them. Don dove deep into peppers and chiles, and I remember clearly when he was the first to grow Jimmy Nardello sweet frying peppers in our region. His tomatoes were unrivaled, his Sicilian purple eggplants practically glowed, and come fall, his squash selection was the stuff of legend. From kombucha and red kuri to specially selected sweet butternuts and buttercups—not to mention the enormous “sidewalk” Hubbard squash—his produce was always the best and most flavorful.

These ingredients became the foundation of the creative, plant-based cuisine we served to thousands every week at Inn Season Café. But even more than the vegetables themselves, it was the stories behind them that made the food come alive. Don would talk about each variety with such love, sprinkling in personal anecdotes and his unmistakable sense of humor. Over the years, we saved stories for each other like treasured recipes.

He was immensely proud of his family. He loved talking about how Anthony ran the farm and his trailblazing work at Michigan State, Alex’s brilliance in mathematics, Janie’s adventures in New Zealand, Heather in Tennessee and Aaron in Michigan. When my cookbook Vegetarian Traditions was published, Don was featured—and he delighted in pointing out his four photos to anyone who’d listen. On book tours, he and Donna would host me at their booth for signings, their support always steadfast.

When Donna faced health challenges, our conversations deepened. He shared her journey with me, knowing I had walked through similar struggles with my late wife Barbara. We marveled at Donna’s stamina and determination. After she passed, Don kept the farm and market presence alive with the help of Anthony, his sister Sandra, and a rotating cast of family members who all took turns carrying the torch.

He shared photos of the meditation bench he built and planted at Donna’s gravesite. I’ll never forget the way he would he tear up. It was pure love.

Don was vulnerable, funny, and unflinchingly opinionated. His Marine Corps training gave him structure, and when it came to organic farming, there was no room for debate—he knew his stuff from the soil up. Yet, despite his confidence, he was endlessly relatable, always willing to share his knowledge and experiences. Whether you were a seasoned chef, a fellow farmer, or just someone curious about kale, Don had a way of making you feel like part of something bigger.

And that’s exactly what he did—he helped build something bigger. One vegetable, one conversation, one kind word at a time. He made the world better in every community he touched.

The Royal Oak Farmers Market became a cultural hub for southeastern Michigan, and Don Cinzori was a huge part of that. He didn’t just sell vegetables—he cultivated relationships, memories, and meaning.

As for me, Don changed the way I saw the world of food and farming. His wisdom stays with me—in the market aisles, in the stories I share, and in every bite of lovingly grown produce. I still hear his voice sometimes, joking with me about peppers or offering one of his off-the-cuff bits of advice.

He’s there with me, always—at the market stall, in the kitchen, and here in this blog. Here is Don’s Obiturary link.