Tutt and I went to the farmer's market before coffee this morning. That is how bad the man is jonesing for a fresh tomato. The farmers market is such a pleasant place. Saturday morning, early, still misty from the night, it has a scent all its own. Fruity with an underlying aroma of earth and grass. The people you meet there are invariably smiling and friendly; swapping comments on the weather, the heat, the rain, or the lack of it. And the sheer volume of good, fresh produce is enough to lighten the lowest heart.
Food speaks to us all. The sustenance of life. Plump blackberries, dark and glistening in their baskets. Fat ripe tomatoes, and bushels of firm brown pototoes. Dark green melons, and cucumbers and zuccinies. And the peaches. Ah...the sweet golden heavenly peaches, so fragrant and juicey they would make you slap your grandmother. Yes, food speaks to us all.
The farmer's market is not my grandfather's store. I doesn't have the old men sitting on the bench out front, whittling and spitting on the sidewalk, it doesn't have the feed sacks and the salt blocks in the back, which gave off an aroma of safety and love. It doesn't have the worn counter tops or the hugh old cash register, but it has the same feeling of small town togetherness that touches a place in me that is very old and dear.
Go to your farmer's market, and share in the feeling of "wholeness".