The Los Angeles Farmer’s Market. Just like the gym, it can be hard to drum up the motivation, but once it’s over, you walk away with the feeling of time well-spent, to say the least.
Rick and I hit the Hollywood Farmer’s Market today. This is the mother of all farmer’s markets. Sprouts, herbs, heirlooms, native plants, raw milk, varietal grapes. To enter without a week’s worth of recipes can lead to lots of overspending and consecutive spoilage. What was I really planning to do with all those persimmons anyway?
Getting to the farmer’s market requires driving, waiting on line at the Sunset and Vine WaMu ATM, parking at the ArcLight, remembering to get validation, and carrying many Chico Bags that just keep getting heavier and more unmanageable as we go. These are the facets of farmer’s marketing that inspire Rick to create excuse after excuse of why he should be doing something else. But, I drag him along anyway. And he carries the bags. And it is good.
I tell Rick, just as I tell myself, that it is important to have gratitude for this weekly opportunity, as small farmers are not doing so hot. Economically, they are struggling and are forced to walk the fine line separating the public’s desire for organic, locally-grown food and their ever-increasing need for affordable offerings. (Been to the grocery section of the 99 Cents Only Store lately?) The farmer’s market is potentially a fleeting experience where our vendor can tell us that we’re not just eating green seedless grapes, but “Prince Johnnies”. And when I pay him the money, he grabs another bunch and adds it to my bag. Just because. I talk to another young couple about the low weight of some pink grapefruit and the dehydrated appearance of passionfruit and we try to decipher if this indicates less juiciness. The sprouts lady tells me onion sprouts make her bleed. I refrain from inquiring further. I talk to the apple vendor who tells me where his farm is located, how to get there, and which apples grow when. Then, he asks if I want to come out and help with pruning and chasing rattlesnakes. On my way out, I drop my remaining change in the guitar case of a waify tween singing an acoustic cover of Rhianna’s “Umbrella” (ella, ella, ay, ay ay). I contrast this to the last time I went to the supermarket and walked back and forth between aisle 7 and 19, unable to find canned pumpkin nor someone to direct me to it. After finding it, I paid at the self check-out and a flat screen thanked me for shopping at my neighborhood Ralph’s.
Here, among the stalls of produce, eggs, and cacti, there is a pulse. There is a cash flow. There is supply and demand. There is no middle man. There is no packaging. There is color, texture, and samples everywhere! There is me, and I’m loving it.
Here’s to farmer’s markets everywhere: intersections of face-to-face human interaction, free market economics, and sustainable practices. Here’s to making them a regular part of our lives.
Rick and I hit the Hollywood Farmer’s Market today. This is the mother of all farmer’s markets. Sprouts, herbs, heirlooms, native plants, raw milk, varietal grapes. To enter without a week’s worth of recipes can lead to lots of overspending and consecutive spoilage. What was I really planning to do with all those persimmons anyway?
Getting to the farmer’s market requires driving, waiting on line at the Sunset and Vine WaMu ATM, parking at the ArcLight, remembering to get validation, and carrying many Chico Bags that just keep getting heavier and more unmanageable as we go. These are the facets of farmer’s marketing that inspire Rick to create excuse after excuse of why he should be doing something else. But, I drag him along anyway. And he carries the bags. And it is good.
I tell Rick, just as I tell myself, that it is important to have gratitude for this weekly opportunity, as small farmers are not doing so hot. Economically, they are struggling and are forced to walk the fine line separating the public’s desire for organic, locally-grown food and their ever-increasing need for affordable offerings. (Been to the grocery section of the 99 Cents Only Store lately?) The farmer’s market is potentially a fleeting experience where our vendor can tell us that we’re not just eating green seedless grapes, but “Prince Johnnies”. And when I pay him the money, he grabs another bunch and adds it to my bag. Just because. I talk to another young couple about the low weight of some pink grapefruit and the dehydrated appearance of passionfruit and we try to decipher if this indicates less juiciness. The sprouts lady tells me onion sprouts make her bleed. I refrain from inquiring further. I talk to the apple vendor who tells me where his farm is located, how to get there, and which apples grow when. Then, he asks if I want to come out and help with pruning and chasing rattlesnakes. On my way out, I drop my remaining change in the guitar case of a waify tween singing an acoustic cover of Rhianna’s “Umbrella” (ella, ella, ay, ay ay). I contrast this to the last time I went to the supermarket and walked back and forth between aisle 7 and 19, unable to find canned pumpkin nor someone to direct me to it. After finding it, I paid at the self check-out and a flat screen thanked me for shopping at my neighborhood Ralph’s.
Here, among the stalls of produce, eggs, and cacti, there is a pulse. There is a cash flow. There is supply and demand. There is no middle man. There is no packaging. There is color, texture, and samples everywhere! There is me, and I’m loving it.
Here’s to farmer’s markets everywhere: intersections of face-to-face human interaction, free market economics, and sustainable practices. Here’s to making them a regular part of our lives.
