elle b.
Yelp
A week ago, a man I had just met called me a "bachelor" based on what little he knew of my eating habits: that I had recently had a cheeseburger for breakfast, that I see nothing wrong with scrambling some eggs for dinner, and that I like my spirits dark and neat.
There are a lot of things he doesn't know about me. Among them: that I revere hearth and home, love fresh veggies, and have mad knife skills.
On Sunday morning I made my way to the Temescal Farmers Market, where I circulated slowly and with great deliberation. True, I was hoping to spot the Bakesale Betty's stand... But I also bought a tote-full of gorgeous produce, including cheery orange persimmons, homely little chestnuts, audacious and pungent fennel, earthy trumpet and lion's mane mushrooms, and fun-to-pronounce cipollini onions.
Farmers rock my world. In another life, I used to work on a certified-organic family farm. I know what it's like to have every item on your to-do list be a dire imperative. (Mend fence on sheep pasture! Pick raspberries! Weed pumpkin patch! Harvest honey!) And why discussing the weather is anything but small talk. And what it's like to rise before dawn and head to a chilly barn, press my forehead into the broad, warm flank of a dairy cow, and fill up two pails with fresh milk.
Farming is hard work: back-breaking, mind-stretching, soul-stirring, wallet-risking, and often terribly isolated. There is no Yelping in the herb garden or chicken shed. And sadly, it's often reliant upon middlemen and brokers who chip away at the earnings of the people who till the soil and tend the livestock. I love knowing that at farmers markets, more of my money goes straight to the producers.
Most farmers markets are feel-good affairs, in spades (har!), but this was one of the better ones I'd been to in awhile. Thank you, local growers. Thank you, bountiful California autumn.
And thank you, pot-pie makers. The "bachelor" scored some tasty emergency rations.