Most Saturday mornings, you will find Molly and me wandering through the sensory carnival provided by our local Farmer’s Market.
The routine never varies. We fortify ourselves at our first stop with fresh watermelon lemonade because we want to keep our chatting chops fresh and our palates cleansed. (Also because at least one of us has attempted to squeeze a morning run in before our leisurely market visit and is still sweating conspicuously.)
We meander west, pausing occasionally to appreciate the wide variety of entertainment — troubadours of varying talent, a mime whose daughter played on a T-ball team I once coached, chubby babies gnawing on fat little toes, and way too serious little strings players with impressive skill and concentration.
Every week the spectacle delights us.
And then we get to eat.
Roasted corn cut off the cob, Hmong egg rolls, rellenos, crepes, rice paper rolls, kettle corn, gelato, and whatever amazing treat the Kangaroostaurant serves up that day.
Well fortified, we make our way east to shop. We’re pretty careful to buy locally grown produce, which doesn’t limit our choices at all. In fact, we’ve cooked whole meals based on cheese, meats and vegetables introduced to us by chatty local vendors.
Our local farmer’s market has not varied much from the one Mother Goose described 100 years ago. We get to enjoy it for a few more weeks until the Farmer’s Market moves inside for the winter, another sad end to a glorious summer.
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