The Poetry of the Farmer's Market

Last weekend I was flat on my back, twisted like a corkscrew. Today I was able to get myself to the chiropractor. When I am totally bent up, my husband has to carefully float me into the car, like two hundred pounds of Lalique crystal....

But this time I was able to drive myself.

After being traumatized on the drop table, I decided that I wanted to run some errands. The endorphins had kicked in, and the world was a beautiful place. Too bad I can barely walk...

First stop, the Farmer's Market.

I missed the turn, like I always do, and had to turn around in the run down neighborhood that surrounds the Holy of Holies.

On a Saturday, there are usually a lot of people milling around in that neighborhood. Cars stopped in the middle of the road. I dodged the loitering vehicles, and made the turns to find my way back to the main road. I noticed a cardboard sign tacked on a tree in front of one house. It read (sic): "yes, I do have a dog for sale. A year old Chihuahua, $300, who is up to date on her short." Followed by the address of the house that the tree was standing in front of....

I do love weird hand lettered signage. It is poetry. I am in a world of poetry. The Farmer's Market parking lot has finally arrived. A library of food poetry and people....

I pulled into my favorite parking space. It is far from the door, but it is under the shade of an old tree. In front of the market, there is an assortment of old shopping carts from all sorts of establishments. Some are from Shopko (BTW, there are no Shopko's where I live...) and there are a few that hale from Big Lots....

I grab my cart, and enter the establishment. Since it is Saturday, it is rocking. In my late 40's, I am one of the youngest people there.

I smile at everyone I meet, and they smile back. Men and women are here, all in the same state of bliss and wariness. Acquiring fresh produce is an art, and if you are under the age of 40, you probably are not competent to execute the mission. You must be able to detect the innate honesty of a plum or sweet potato. Young folk are just too naive, too easy to lie to.
We of the grey hair know if the eggplant we are holding is worthy of the $.39/lb price, or if it should be relegated to the "5 for 99 cents" bin.

I head straight to the discount bin. I have a lot of mouths to feed, and I know that the bounty there will be shocking. At the Farmer's Market, even the unworthy produce in the discount bin is better than what's at the supermarket.

If a 3 pound bag of apples ends up with a bruised fruit in it, it's in the discount bin for 99 cents. Eggplant with a spot? Three in the bag, and in the bin. Stray bananas and ripe mangoes? In the bin. The same green peppers that are $1 a piece at the supermarket, they're 5 in a bag, and 99 cents.....

Near the refrigerator case, a husband and a wife debate whether or not they want to buy the corn that is already shucked, or the corn that is not shucked. I am not fooled - I know that in a week, the same corn that is $.50 an ear will be 4 for $1.00. The corn time is coming.

The peach time is here. I fill a bag, for cobbler this time. I don't have time to make pie lately. The green plums are here too. Instead of paying the full price, I get a bag of misfits out of the discount bin. They are misshappen and have a few spots, but they all look the same once they have been sliced and covered with sugar on top of a buttery tart crust. 99 cents is just the right price for those boogers as well.

I spend $20 at the Farmer's Market. My whole cart is full. I even bought a bag of peppermint sticks. My big splurge was paying full price for Vidalia onions.

When I get home, I limp into the house. The men-children go to the car and unload the bags into the house. I sit at the dining table, listening to them count up the bounty...

"Mangoes! Mom, can you peel it for me? Pears! Can I have a plum? Ugh, eggplant...."

I peel mangoes, and slice them up. Greedy hands grab them as fast as I can slice. Bananas disappear. "Ugh, the green plums are bitter!"

No shit, dude! They're not ripe... This is actually a blessing. It is hard to make a tart when half the fruit have been devoured. I make a note to hide them.

Full of fruit, the ravenous men-children disappear. Their poetry echoing softly down the hall as they make their way back to the PS3.....