I love the farmers market at this time of year, the slight golden cast of the light makes all the produce even more enticing. There are few things more picturesque than piles of winter squash in all their variety and bulbousness piled in a wooden crate with a small white-lettered sign written in chalk telling the price per pound. I bought two delicata, which do indeed have a delicate flavor and are especially tasty when grilled.
I also bought some plump cherry tomatoes and a pound of green beans, a ball of fresh goat's milk cheese from Mystery Bay Farm, and a loaf of organic walnut cranberry bread, a slice of which I'm eating now topped by - yes - the chevre. I might eat nothing else all day.
I find the market very therapeutic. It's best to go early, before the tourists wake up and when the selection is best. This being a small town, I see lots of people I know. The market is a good place for social chit chat, and nobody expects you to stop for too long before moving on to fill your shopping bag. (Of course you must bring your own bag.) I love it that most of the farmers are young people, many of whom have babies strapped across their chests. That organic farming is seen as a desirable way of life for young couples raising a family gives me hope for humanity. I love the clichéd beauty of the displays of produce in wooden crates or lined up on a table shining like jewels. There is a calm to be had walking through the market in the morning, even though there is activity all around.
Women weave, girls hand out dog biscuits, a man sings and plays guitar; the coffee wagon is busy, the lines at the bakery tent and the taco truck are long; the barbecued oyster stand sends salt-scented steam toward the bright morning sky. I gather my bounty and then I take it home.
