I have to say that one of the things I've come to enjoy most so far about our new surroundings is the presence of the local Farmer's Market. From April to November it operates both on Wednesday afternoon and Saturday morning; the first time I remembered to check it out was actually during the weekday slot. I was delighted by the tables full of ripe, rainbow-hued, mouth-wateringly-delicious-looking fruits and vegetables laid out before me. For a while, all I could do was wander around, gaping in wonder, oohing and aahing over the bounty. I mean, there were cucumbers and zucchini and potatoes and watermelons and peaches and blueberries and...more shades of cherry tomatoes than I even knew existed. (I had to bring home some of those, just to prove to the boys that I was not, in fact, inventing--or hallucinating--the purple and orange and yellow ones.)
Eventually I got hold of myself and managed to actually purchase...some ears of corn...for dinner. When I asked the vendor if the Saturday offerings were more extensive, he gave a quick look around and answered, in a slow and bemused tone, (like "what are you, NEW here?" why yes, yes I am...) "Yeah...it's about 3 times as big." "Yaaaayyyy," squealed my inner...enviro-ganic-vegetarian, (that should totally be a thing, dontcha think?) who vowed to return for the main event in a few days.
And let me tell ya, it is a Big. Honkin'. Deal. First of all, I made the mistake of driving...even though our house is situated, oh, approximately 2 miles or so from the market location. In my defense, having spent most of my life in the car-centric D.C. metro area, I just haven't quite gotten into the habit yet of hopping onto my 2-wheels and pedaling everywhere as a viable alternative. I couldn't be too embarrassed, though, as there were TONS of other cars...turning parking into a sort of "mall-at-holiday-time" proposition. I ended up meandering a few blocks away and finding space on a side street...and then walking over with the other slackers who had brought their motorized vehicles. On the way, I had plenty of time to reflect upon another phenomenon that has come to my attention of late. You see, we have moved to the outskirts of a very artsy community...and I have noticed that I am distinctly...shall we say..."under-tattooed" for the general population. Let me hasten to add that this fact is not about to change anytime soon--or ever--but I do enjoy (discreetly) checking out and admiring the inked body decorations that are so prevalent around here.
Anyway, the guy who told me about the weekend market being much more extensive...was neither fibbing nor exaggerating. In addition to the previously mentioned goodies, there were also such delectable items as: a smorgasbord of gluten-free treats, locally-sourced honey, freshly-grown herbs, eggs (I'm assuming from non-caged, non-medicated...100% happy and free...poultry), organic meats...and so, soooo much more. (I swear it was like...Tree Huggers' Disneyland...or something...okay, without the thrill rides...but with super-tasty snacks!) However, when I was rhapsodizing about it to the Male Posse upon their return from South Carolina, the response was much more tepid than I'd expected. (Not that I pictured them jumping up and down with glee while dreaming of tables filled with...produce...but I kinda thought that at least the mention of "animal products" would inspire some enthusiasm...)
Husband, unexpectedly, led off the tirade, "What difference does it make if the PIGS are organic? They're just pork! We don't care!" "Oh, fine," I countered (with an inner eye-roll, or maybe it was actually visible....yeah, probably...) "but you should still come see it...and we should all ride our bikes over!" Of course he readily agreed, with the idea of an idyllic family jaunt, to pick up some fresh salad and fruit for our evening meal, right? Hahahahahaha! His sarcasm-oozing response was something more along the lines of, "That's just great...I'll be sure to bring my cloth bag...and wear some...hemp socks!" Oh. Good. Grief. Before I even had time to formulate a suitably scathing comeback (perhaps something alluding to the fact that those who still own Grateful Dead CDs shouldn't cast the first...well, you know...) Derek piped up in an utterly bewildered voice, suddenly joining the conversation with the query, "Wait, Dad....did you just say...PIMP socks?"
As you can guess, this lovely dinnertime chat was O-V-E-R at that point. Riley was in hysterics, and didn't even really know why. I had retreated (after the inevitable slapping-of-the-forehead) in surrender. On the other hand, Husband gamely stuck around to try and explain exactly what "hemp" was. Ay yi yi. Obviously I have serious work to do, in terms of upping my family's...crunchy...granola...ness. We'll start by riding under our own power to the market on Saturday, perusing the plethora of yummy stuff, and buying something tasty to bring home (yes, in our reusable fabric bags). But don't worry, I feel absolutely certain that it won't be necessary for ANYONE to get a tattoo...