Farmer's Market
The Source
Okay, I’m a soft touch. I’ll admit it. With the absolute exception of telemarketers, I’ll fall for about anything. When the Girl-Boy-Scout-4-H-Volleyball-Baseball-Library munchkins come to my door selling candy for the cause, I’ll buy it. In fact, word is out around the neighborhood that little Johnny can make his quota and earn his portable DVD player with one stop at my place. It doesn’t help that candy is the one evil habit I’ve never managed to acquire and I always end up purchasing the candy then giving it to the knee-high salesman. That’s why the Farmer’s Market is such a trial for me. On one hand, I really like what the place has to offer. Don't misunderstand me, I think the Farmers Market concept is fantastic, but on the other hand it’s…well…so darned personal. Festival Foods…Aldi’s …Save A Lot …good food, nice folks, great variety, but the fellow who raised my broccoli in California is not standing there looking at me. There’s a world of difference in passing up the bunch of radishes grown in a New Jersey hothouse versus walking by the eager eyes of a lady who rose at 4 a.m., got down on her knees and pulled the vegetables from her own garden, then washed them and toted the load into town in time for a 7 a.m. opening. How dare I sleep until eight, casually hop into my Honda, cruise to the market with my espresso in hand, and then have the nerve to walk right past her without purchasing anything? So darned…well….personal. I actually asked a friendly jelly-peddler about this. Do you feel slighted when people walk up to your stand, finger your fruit, then walk on by? He told me that it doesn’t bother him much and that he’s glad to be in the open air and chatting with folks. He was lying to me. I just know it. If I examine a tomato then walk on down the asphalt alleyway I begin writing my own scenarios in my head. “Look what he did! He touched my tomato then just strolled off! Aren’t my tomatoes good enough for him? Is he so high and mighty that he can casually get into his foreign-made car and drive home without a single thought of the sweat and toil and tumult it took to get that tomato to the Farmers Market?” And if I’ve had way too much espresso then the storyline gets even more desperate. “Here I am with three kids in college, the soul provider for my aging mother, sponsoring six third-world orphans out of my monthly social security check, and wondering how long before my family can afford indoor plumbing, and he refuses to buy so much as a single tomato!” One idyllic morning last summer I cruised the Market in search of raspberries. That’s all I wanted..just raspberries. On the drive in I’d steeled myself against the possible temptations that I knew the Farmers Market would send my way. No matter what, I told myself, I will buy raspberries and ignore everything else, including the plaintive expressions on the faces of the other vendors. I found my raspberries, bought two boxes, tucked them under my arm like an aging, vegetarian quarterback, and headed for my car. Then I spied them. Two young urchins…no adults around them, standing behind their makeshift stand displaying a sign “We Picked Them!” It was Norman Rockwell on steroids. I peeked out the corner of my eye to see what they were selling. Onions. Big, white gorgeous onions. Hey! I like onions! I need onions! The world needs onions…especially those purchased from the work-stained hands of two such adorable kids. So I broke my raspberry exclusionary vow and loaded up a plastic sack with onions. Okay, I’m a dummy. I don't know an onion from a turnip. I mean, I thought they seemed especially firm and perhaps a bit smaller than the average Vidalia, but in my mind the future of these children was at stake. Nine. Nine turnips. And I have not the slightest idea what to do with a turnip. Last night on Turner Classic Movies there were showing an old version of Huckleberry Finn. Circus owner Andy Devine was painting his little mule with white stripes to make it look like a zebra while Buster Keaton was feeding the animal turnips, but Keaton cheated. His turnips had long green stems attached. That… THAT I could have seen was a turnip. Having neither a donkey nor a turnip cookbook in my kitchen I tossed them, making a mental note: check future onions. I’ll return to the Farmers Market. It’s not only an economically sound and ecologically wise place to shop, but I like the feeling of community that develops when I know the lady who grew my lettuce. You’ll recognize me. I’ll be the one avoiding your gaze.