Yams? Leafy Greens? Erotica? Buy Something at the Farmers Market! The Farmers Need Us Now
Mar. 26, 2021
SPRING WAS REALLY showing off at the mid-March open-air fundraiser at the Ivy Leaf Farms in South Houston — almost as if it were trying to make up for its recent shortcomings. But can you really blame weather? Of course you could, but weather is weather. Weather will never learn to care about us, our travel plans, our comfort, our acres of blueberry bushes. Yet we're all obsessed. Did you hear what weather did? Boy, I wish he'd notice me.
At the fundraiser, a woman in her 50s approached me to ask what I was waiting for in line, and to be fair, it wasn't clear. I stood a social distance of 10 feet behind the next customer, which is two feet too many. I could have easily been waiting for a plant-based burger to the right or hanging basketball planter to the left. All nice things, but no, I was waiting to buy a book of erotic short stories written by local author Qynn Law. "It looks like she sells candles, too," I note.
Five minutes later and still ten feet from the booth, Lori's — that's the middle-aged lady's name, I learn— and my conversation had moved on to the topic of Sequoias. Lori isn't a traveler like her daughter, but long ago she saw a picture in a magazine of a Sequoia turned over, roots craggy, reaching two stories into the mist, and now I kind of need to see them too. As I listened, yes, other thoughts did pop into my head, like the dog I had committed to watch back home whose bladder I imagined as a battery blinking on low. It's just that the dialogue that emerges at an outdoor market is so damn pleasant — like Instagram rabbit holes, and manic moments in between deciding is it Netflix or Masterclass or pick up a book? What do I do with my free time, please somebody tell me.
The dog would be fine, I thought. And if not? Well, we've all been there.
I don't make it to the farmers market much, but when I do I'm always uplifted. In fact, we should all make an effort to go soon.
After the recent freeze, farmers need us now more than ever — and if they don't have those yams you've been yapping about, try something else, like their leafy greens, or even a sock puppet. Just buy something because while some growers have sprouts showing promise, others most definitely have lost everything. If a farm stand that used to sell vegetables now only sells sock puppets, that's a sign you should let them keep the change.
Even during the good times farmers markets tug on my heartstrings, turn that icy valve into soft serve, they do. Farmers wake up every single day at cock-a-doodle-thirty, early to bed, early to rise, just to grow honest produce for us city folk so we can live happy and healthy lives.
Visiting the farmers market is a little stressful because I want to make sure I say "what's up" to my friends and buy something of theirs, of course. And then there are the booths that I don't know, which I can't just walk past. Especially if their queue is empty. I take time to ponder the possibility of a teal crocheted rabbit hammock and ultimately tell them it's gorgeous and I'll have to think about it.
But then I wonder are they watching me go get in line for cookies three tents down? I didn't have to think too hard about buying cookies.
Oh, just take all my money. Split it up evenly, please. Take my social security number too, milk me like one of your French goats.
And while we can't realistically hand them all our cash, the least we can do is offer a smile or some wholesome chat — I'm convinced the farmers market is where small talk originated, an environment fortified by steel drum, hot coffee and tasty pralines for dipping.
Go ahead, ask your favorite goat farmer about their goats. How's their fiber? Do you ever catch them going through your wallet while you sleep?
Spot one of our talented local photographers hanging around — they're easy to find. Tell them you'd like to book a photo shoot. I'm serious, one of these days, and likely the next time I run into Emily Jaschke at the Urban Harvest Farmers Market on Saturday in the St. John's parking lot from 8am to noon, rain or shine, I'm going to pull the trigger on that tractor shoot somewhere out like Lufkin.
I can't believe I'm admitting this, but sometimes it's nice to slow down. A stroll at the farmers market will have you incubated in relaxation. Go ahead, have a casual gab with a stranger. And as you look through the oven window, licking your lips at that chunky chicken, schmaltz dribbling all over a spread of heirloom tubers, think, isn't this pleasant?
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ABOUT THIS TIME last year, I had recently returned from an overseas trip to the Promised Land of Israel — the last time, by the way, I boarded a commercial airline to this day.
Within days of the return, I have such vivid memories of frantically running around town trying to stock my bathrooms with rolls of toilet paper and my pantry with food staples that would last through an apocalypse. Life as we knew it had changed. It gives me goose bumps when I ponder that spring of 2020, one long year ago.
It was a surreal time in our lives. Frightening, unnerving, and sometimes dark. Time stood still. Every new day seemed like the day before, and the day before, and so on, and so on. Spring turned to summer, summer to fall, then fall to winter — with the hopes of the dawning of a new day when January 2121 rolled around, only to find that the universe was not quite ready to return to the way it once was. We had a little more turmoil in store for us.
But early this morning as I practiced my morning yoga outside in my back yard, I was acutely aware of my surroundings. And as I gazed out into the copper and umber colors of the dead plants the recent freeze left behind, I saw tiny bright green leaves beginning to decorate the tips of the blistered tree branches. I actually had to blink my eyes to gain perfect focus, making sure it wasn't a mirage. Once I confirmed the green leaf blossoms were real, I immediately started hearing the happy birds singing their symphony. They were there all along, but it had taken me a few minutes to recognize their songs.
Spring is here, my friends. And the promise of springtime rebirth has never been more meaningful than at this very moment. We have an opportunity for a renewed existence, a new way to get back into our old habits and ways of living, only better. And it feels so good.
Despite one full year of hardships, so many have remained positive, optimistic and altruistic. It is with these attributes that we should leap into spring as we kick Covid, politics and crazy winter weather to the curb. We are reborn! Let's celebrate — mask-free, if you choose!
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