At the market
This post is in response to The On Being Project’s Foundations series and prompt: “How would you start to tell the generative story of the world you can see and touch?”
I’m halfway convinced the world was born at a farmer’s market. Everyone needs to eat, and many of us love to eat. I know I relish in my weekly market visit, mouth watering for breakfast while I peruse the produce stalls. I know my market’s vendors, if not always by name, at least by face, and they know us. The kombucha guy’s smile widens when we approach for a sample. The bakery lady starts folding together a small box when we step up. The organic farmstand rounds down their per-pound prices out of convenience, lest they need to fuss with making change, and because they know we love their onions. Even the pasta people, whose stand is rare and fleeting, remembers our names months after we last saw them.
Breakfast tacos and carrot cinnamon hotcakes. Now that’s what I call gourmet.
Even the food court chefs recognize us. Of course they do; if we’re at the market, we’re most definitely going to get breakfast, maybe burritos or crêpes or tamales. When the taco stand couple had a child, he was back at the market the following Saturday while she stayed home with their newborn. When I noticed a picture of Mom and Baby on their canopy’s stilts, it felt like a proclamation: “Thank you for your patronage! Meet the newest member of our team!”
Multiple market stand mamas brought babes into the world this year. We watched their bellies grow bigger week after week and wondered, as respectfully as we could among ourselves, who might finally burst first. Just as the tomatoes and watermelons became ready, so did the younglings, and they all seemed to emerge in beautiful synchronicity. It was enough to watch the ripening process, the nature of mothering as it started the long, beautiful season of another life’s growth. I don’t think I want children myself, but I admire those who believe in a future that their darlings deserve, one of goodness and resilience, wealthy with connections and care. These babies will grow up at the market, after all; they’ve already learned these lessons before so many of us adults truly understand.
Check out this cluster of cinnamon cap mushrooms. They are beautiful and delicious, especially when sautéed with onions and garlic and other tasty things.
I don’t know any of these people personally, whether or not they have kids or dogs or ailing parents. But I know they support my palate, and I love them for that. Sometimes we make a meal out of every last market purchase: mushrooms and veggies, glutinous carbs too, plus maybe one of those out-of-this-world chickens, and my favorite chocolate chip cookie for dessert. Those are the dinners that make me feel rich with the abundance of fruit and friendliness.
I touch an apple, sip a tonic, nibble some honey, and I sense the hands, the heartbeats, the sunshine that alchemized to make this deliciousness. I mosey through the crowd, tote bags full, tummy happy, grinning ear to ear, and I know that this place is heaven.