To Market, To Market

Which is why I am only too eager to pull myself out of bed on a Saturday, hours before any other rational twentysomething, while the morning is still cool and quiet: The Farmer’s Market. There are plenty of early regulars like me, clutching carafes of hot coffee as we sleepily meander through aisles of garden blooms, fresh produce, local vendors. Some, like Rose Marie the baguette lady, know me by name. There’s the bagel bakery, dried fruit stand, french pastry chefs, honey harvesters; the cheese people and citrus farmers are regular stops, too, even if only for samples.
And while the cherry scones are to die for, my favorite part of this Saturday tradition is the atmosphere itself – the small-town-without-pretense simplicity of a stroll in the park, happy dogs on leashes, tee shirts and sweats, friendly greetings of acquaintance. As the crowd begins to fill in, I’ll take my little breakfast to a bench in the rose garden or wander the avenue in a sort of dreamy haze,

One of the necessary results of spending 40+ hours living in a greenish, office fluorescent tint is the acute realization of free time – every moment being so precious that my body has physically adapted to a sense of urgency. Carpe-the-Diem! Which is why I am only too eager to pull myself out of bed on a Saturday, hours before any other rational twentysomething, while the morning is still cool and quiet: The Farmer’s Market.

There are plenty of early regulars like me, clutching carafes of hot coffee as we sleepily meander through aisles of garden blooms, fresh produce, local vendors. Though, I must admit to a sense of elitist camaraderie with this group, the privileged few to share in what feels to be an incredible secret. The rest of the world will soon wake and begin the rush of their weekend tasks; but for now, my biggest effort involves trying to decide how best to spend the $10 bill I’ve allotted myself ($20 quickly proving a wallet hazard). Rose Marie the baguette lady, who knows me by name, is far too easy and I’m a sucker for her kalamata olive bread and perfectly dense scones. Then there’s the bagel bakery, dried fruit and nut stand, french pastry chefs, honey harvesters; the cheese people for reggiano or romano and citrus farmers for sugar-sweet red grapefruit are regular stops, too. I have yet to succumb to the bags of freshly popped kettle corn or the candy-covered apples, knowing it will be impossible to skip over on my subsequent visits. I will, however, shamelessly accept numerous samples.

And while my freshly bought cherry scones are to die for, the favorite part of this Saturday tradition is the atmosphere itself – the small-town-without-pretense simplicity of a stroll in the park, happy dogs on leashes, tee shirts and sweats, friendly greetings of acquaintance. As the crowd begins to fill in, I’ll take my little breakfast to a bench in the rose garden or wander the avenue in a sort of dreamy haze, knowing there is no better place to be.

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