chrysanthemum from the marketI drive to the market alone today, not being able to convince anyone else to come with me. "We don't want to go the fahmaw's mahwket" they protest. I snicker at their cute "New York" accents and wish I could preserve their sweet little voices in my head forever. Pretty soon they'll be grown up and pronouncing their r's perfectly....
I pull in next to an older woman loading her car. As I walk along my van and open the hatch, I notice her homemade bumper sticker, "Old white ladies for Obama." I laugh to myself and then tell her,
"I love your bumper sticker!"
"Thanks!" she says. "I'm insulted they'd think just because I'm a woman I'd vote for Sarah Palin."
We exchange a few more words about the election and then part ways. I pull the empty red wagon behind me.
Approaching the long line of white tents, I notice that the man playing guitar is someone I met last weekend, a former student of my good friend Deborah who has just moved away. His long brown hair is pulled into a ponytail and he wears a stocking cap and well-worn clothing. He is singing passionately as I walk by.
I walk all the way to the end like I always do to see what each farmer has. Today it's noticeably quieter and there are fewer booths--they are no longer overflowing with the summer bounty. Now there are pumpkins, turnips, greens, onions, a few peppers and tomatoes and squash. The maroon and golden yellow mums lined up along the ground catch my eye but I keep going. I'm on a mission today to stock up on winter squash and items for my annual chili party (this must be the 13th year of it by now).
An African drumbeat fills my ears as I near the end of the row, and behind the women dancing in African costumes, I see a drummer who looks a lot like my pottery teacher. I make a mental note to stop back and talk to him, as I've been thinking of taking an African drumming class that I've been signs for around town. It's been 16 years since I've done any drumming but I've felt a real need to do it again lately. My dreams are often about music or I wake up with songs in my head and maybe this means I need more music in my life. The cold air gets to me, so I leave a tip and continue my shopping.
I bump into my friend Alexis, and barely recognize her in her layers of fall clothing and big sunglasses. We hug and catch up on each other's lives. I tell her about the chili party as she starts to leave, and a farmer at a nearby booth tells her that real Texas chili doesn't include beans. It was traditionally just peppers, onions, meat and spices. I stop by his booth and buy the rest of his peppers. He tells me he's sorry he's out of a certain kind of pepper that looks like a habenero but it's sweet. "It would be perfect in your chili," he says, but "this is the last week of peppers." A little twinge of sadness washes over me as I think about those long winter months without my weekly farmer's market fix.
Beef is next on my list so I stop by Missouri Legacy beef. The woman and I converse about various buying options and we talk about where I can find her meat during the winter months. I'm glad to hear I won't have to go to the grocery store to find it--it will be at Clover's Natural Foods store, a small market with friendly employees.
The young man working at Uprise Bread notices my empty wagon and says, "Where are the kids?" I tell him they didn't want to come but I also needed the room in the wagon for all of my goodies. On to Goatsbeard Farm to buy a pound of soft goat cheese... Ken jokingly asks, "How much do I charge you for this anyway?" We're regular customers and my husband helped out at their booth while they were in Iowa adopting their baby.
I make an impulse decision to buy some of those mums, even though I plant them every year and they never do well. They will look pretty at the party. My friend Stacy's mother-in-law hollers at me, "What beautiful mums, Amy!" And lucky me, she tells me how I can help them survive the winter. I convince myself that these will do well because they are locally grown, unlike the ones I bought at Home Depot last year. I cross over to Phil's Garden--he has winter squash so I fill my bag with pumpkins, acorn squash and butternut squash. "Thanks, Amy" says Patt, Phil's wife. I pass by her son's rack of nature photo greeting cards as I head to the car to unload.
With a lighter load, I wander back down past the booths to get some things I've forgotten. At the Share Life booth, I grab as many onions as I can hold in my arms and carefully place them on the scale. The kind old man looks into my eyes as he gently places the onions in my bag and gives me a sincere "thank you."
My pottery teacher Karsten is sitting at his drum alone so I walk up to him. "You're a man of many talents!" I exclaim. He holds up his hands, implying that being a potter lends itself well to other things.
Finally, even though I've tried to stay as long as I can, I am done. I have all I need.
I put a couple dollars in the guitarist's case as I walk out.
In one hour, I have talked with a more than a dozen people and have looked into the eyes and touched the hands of the people who grew or made my food.
I don't get this at the grocery store. There is no comparison.
The Farmer's Market is more than food for my family.
It is food for the soul.
I pull in next to an older woman loading her car. As I walk along my van and open the hatch, I notice her homemade bumper sticker, "Old white ladies for Obama." I laugh to myself and then tell her,
"I love your bumper sticker!"
"Thanks!" she says. "I'm insulted they'd think just because I'm a woman I'd vote for Sarah Palin."
We exchange a few more words about the election and then part ways. I pull the empty red wagon behind me.
Approaching the long line of white tents, I notice that the man playing guitar is someone I met last weekend, a former student of my good friend Deborah who has just moved away. His long brown hair is pulled into a ponytail and he wears a stocking cap and well-worn clothing. He is singing passionately as I walk by.
I walk all the way to the end like I always do to see what each farmer has. Today it's noticeably quieter and there are fewer booths--they are no longer overflowing with the summer bounty. Now there are pumpkins, turnips, greens, onions, a few peppers and tomatoes and squash. The maroon and golden yellow mums lined up along the ground catch my eye but I keep going. I'm on a mission today to stock up on winter squash and items for my annual chili party (this must be the 13th year of it by now).
An African drumbeat fills my ears as I near the end of the row, and behind the women dancing in African costumes, I see a drummer who looks a lot like my pottery teacher. I make a mental note to stop back and talk to him, as I've been thinking of taking an African drumming class that I've been signs for around town. It's been 16 years since I've done any drumming but I've felt a real need to do it again lately. My dreams are often about music or I wake up with songs in my head and maybe this means I need more music in my life. The cold air gets to me, so I leave a tip and continue my shopping.
I bump into my friend Alexis, and barely recognize her in her layers of fall clothing and big sunglasses. We hug and catch up on each other's lives. I tell her about the chili party as she starts to leave, and a farmer at a nearby booth tells her that real Texas chili doesn't include beans. It was traditionally just peppers, onions, meat and spices. I stop by his booth and buy the rest of his peppers. He tells me he's sorry he's out of a certain kind of pepper that looks like a habenero but it's sweet. "It would be perfect in your chili," he says, but "this is the last week of peppers." A little twinge of sadness washes over me as I think about those long winter months without my weekly farmer's market fix.
Beef is next on my list so I stop by Missouri Legacy beef. The woman and I converse about various buying options and we talk about where I can find her meat during the winter months. I'm glad to hear I won't have to go to the grocery store to find it--it will be at Clover's Natural Foods store, a small market with friendly employees.
The young man working at Uprise Bread notices my empty wagon and says, "Where are the kids?" I tell him they didn't want to come but I also needed the room in the wagon for all of my goodies. On to Goatsbeard Farm to buy a pound of soft goat cheese... Ken jokingly asks, "How much do I charge you for this anyway?" We're regular customers and my husband helped out at their booth while they were in Iowa adopting their baby.
I make an impulse decision to buy some of those mums, even though I plant them every year and they never do well. They will look pretty at the party. My friend Stacy's mother-in-law hollers at me, "What beautiful mums, Amy!" And lucky me, she tells me how I can help them survive the winter. I convince myself that these will do well because they are locally grown, unlike the ones I bought at Home Depot last year. I cross over to Phil's Garden--he has winter squash so I fill my bag with pumpkins, acorn squash and butternut squash. "Thanks, Amy" says Patt, Phil's wife. I pass by her son's rack of nature photo greeting cards as I head to the car to unload.
With a lighter load, I wander back down past the booths to get some things I've forgotten. At the Share Life booth, I grab as many onions as I can hold in my arms and carefully place them on the scale. The kind old man looks into my eyes as he gently places the onions in my bag and gives me a sincere "thank you."
My pottery teacher Karsten is sitting at his drum alone so I walk up to him. "You're a man of many talents!" I exclaim. He holds up his hands, implying that being a potter lends itself well to other things.
Finally, even though I've tried to stay as long as I can, I am done. I have all I need.
I put a couple dollars in the guitarist's case as I walk out.
In one hour, I have talked with a more than a dozen people and have looked into the eyes and touched the hands of the people who grew or made my food.
I don't get this at the grocery store. There is no comparison.
The Farmer's Market is more than food for my family.
It is food for the soul.
