Morning, Market

photo copyright Suto Norbert/Dreamstime

Today was opening day at the local farmers market, and a more blustery day there could not be. Jars of golden honey in bear-pots were available, making me wish I hadn’t bought that large bottle on sale at the grocery store last year. I may buy a jar anyway. That’s what my market does, make me feel wealthy and happy. The only produce I bought was spinach and young garlic. I spent all my money before I could take home succulent, tender chard, or fresh pale blue-white, brown, and warm white eggs. What I bought was lovely long just-dried pasta, orzo, a packet of pre-seasoned quinoa . A bag of velvety oyster mushrooms, and for fun,my head in the clouds,a small packet of coconut caramels. I passed on the nasturtiums ready to plant, the lavender and thyme needing a home. I’ll plant when it’s warmer. This year, I’ll grow an herb garden, eat lots of vegetables from my favorite purveyors, and live the good life, even as I shiver typing these pages.

The heater works but blasts an ear-drum hurting cacophony of rattle–think the blades of a thick metal fan spinning against a thin sheet of metal and increase the volume, and there you have the heater. The sound dies down, after I escape to the porch, where I can still hear it. I think the whole street can hear it.

But I am happier shivering, knowing that the market’s started. Spinach and mushrooms, with orzo ought to do it. There goes the wind. Will it bring down trees, cables? I’m going to plug in my mini-portable heater, and think of dinner. Or coffee.

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