Farmer’s Market

I love the farmer’s market. I love everything about the way the herbs smell when you’re walking through the market (and that those herbs are only $1 for a bundle), the children laughing, the neighbors catching up, the yelling vendors, the sampling customers, the bongo players, blue-grass trios, acoustic guitar solos – all singing for a buck – the fresh fish, the even fresher olive oil (Verni’s – you MUST try it, tastes like it’s straight from Italy and pressed just the week before. $17 for a bottle, just $20 for the bottle and fresh olives) – all sitting in simple lines down two streets every Sunday morning.

The market will always remind me of home, those foothills of Colorado, the birthplace of Alfalfa’s, Whole Foods, etc. Growing up, people who chose organic foods were called “tree huggers” and “granolas” but as evidenced by the throngs of people purchasing organic produce today, general cultural concerns and tastes are shifting. Buying hemp clothing and organic fruit is no longer just for “tree huggers.”

The crowd is luxurious and uplifting in colorful knits and Breton tees, pink lipsticks and flowing skirts, camper shoes and hipster gear. My favorite part is the music, and mostly an older gentleman who plays the accordion, sending squeezebox melodies through the array. He is just as handsome and charming now as he must have been in his younger days.