Goodness, look at that! Spring onions! Green garlic! Spinach! Asparagus! Nepitella! Chives! Green! Green! Green!The farmers' market is back, and I am one incredibly happy lady.
I recommend getting thee to such a market as soon as humanly possible, because this green stuff is currently in the realm of sheer perfection and impossible beauty. I have officially eaten asparagus every day for the past four weeks (I wish I was exaggerating), and I can't stay away! Strange smelling pee be damned, I need these stalks of happiness no matter what sort of havoc they cause. And it simply doesn't matter how many times asparagus taints the, um, scent -- I am startled and momentarily panicky every single time. And this, I think, is what spring is all about. You know, panic. And seeing those stalks in the refrigerator door every time I open it. It's a sort of panic-meets-peace. There's really nothing better.
But I have a problem. That is, a problem besides the whole commode thing. I become obsessive at the farmers' market. It is such hard work for me to exercise any sort of self-restraint. There are so many, well, farmers. So many treasures! So many gorgeous, delicious things! It's not like at the grocery store, where some things look good, and some things don't; where you have to systematically rifle through every single item in order to find the one that looks the least awful.
The farmers' market, it's kind of like entering a special heaven. Or, shall I say, a heaven for vegetable-obsessed nutcases like me. My current system, adapted just last summer after a few marketplace errors, requires me to walk through the entire market before I'm allowed to buy anything. This way, I've discovered, I have a little time to come down off my high and purchase things with a more rational mind. Once I've looked about, I move on to Buying The Produce. The whole time, I have to force the spirit of practicality into my every thought. You will not use eight pounds of spinach this week. Fourteen bunches of onions is too many. You don't need lavender or arugula because it's growing at home. This place is not cheap. This place is not cheap. Do not spend more than forty dollars. Do Not. Focus! Focus! Focus!
By the time I have made my transactions, argued with myself repeatedly, and convinced myself that the market will actually return in one week, I am exhausted. Considering that on any given day in Chicago between the months of May and September, there is a market somewhere nearby, this is all sort of funny. Do I really think that vegetables will run out? I mean, perhaps when the oil spill takes over the entire planet, or when I end up in prison, but not right away. There's nothing to worry about quite yet. Well, but I think in my brain, I can't help but remember those six months, those awful six months, of winter. Yeah, remember that thing? WINTER. Horrible, cold, hateful winter. When nothing grows except my dislike of the snow and my desire to drink away all my pain caused by the barren, icy landscape and the scraping of snow off my car morning after morning. But, dear reader, I digress!
My point here is that there should be a sense of immediacy with the vegetables and fruits of the farmers' markets in the Midwest. This isn't southern California or Florida or The Promised Land, where things grow outside all year long. Perhaps if I moved to one of those places, I could finally relax when I go to the market. Perhaps I could actually not feel like the farmers' market was a ticking bomb, and I'd be able to spend less than that forty dollars each time I went. Perhaps I'd be able to breathe with a more open set of lungs when I caught my first glimpse of the produce bounty each week. I mean, these things are probably all true. It'd all be more like a normal activity, perhaps even mundane. It'd be like less of a challenge, and I'd get a little less nervous. I could focus my energy on other things, like shoe cobbling and candle-making. But, really. Honestly. What's the fun in that?
But I have a problem. That is, a problem besides the whole commode thing. I become obsessive at the farmers' market. It is such hard work for me to exercise any sort of self-restraint. There are so many, well, farmers. So many treasures! So many gorgeous, delicious things! It's not like at the grocery store, where some things look good, and some things don't; where you have to systematically rifle through every single item in order to find the one that looks the least awful.
The farmers' market, it's kind of like entering a special heaven. Or, shall I say, a heaven for vegetable-obsessed nutcases like me. My current system, adapted just last summer after a few marketplace errors, requires me to walk through the entire market before I'm allowed to buy anything. This way, I've discovered, I have a little time to come down off my high and purchase things with a more rational mind. Once I've looked about, I move on to Buying The Produce. The whole time, I have to force the spirit of practicality into my every thought. You will not use eight pounds of spinach this week. Fourteen bunches of onions is too many. You don't need lavender or arugula because it's growing at home. This place is not cheap. This place is not cheap. Do not spend more than forty dollars. Do Not. Focus! Focus! Focus!
By the time I have made my transactions, argued with myself repeatedly, and convinced myself that the market will actually return in one week, I am exhausted. Considering that on any given day in Chicago between the months of May and September, there is a market somewhere nearby, this is all sort of funny. Do I really think that vegetables will run out? I mean, perhaps when the oil spill takes over the entire planet, or when I end up in prison, but not right away. There's nothing to worry about quite yet. Well, but I think in my brain, I can't help but remember those six months, those awful six months, of winter. Yeah, remember that thing? WINTER. Horrible, cold, hateful winter. When nothing grows except my dislike of the snow and my desire to drink away all my pain caused by the barren, icy landscape and the scraping of snow off my car morning after morning. But, dear reader, I digress!
My point here is that there should be a sense of immediacy with the vegetables and fruits of the farmers' markets in the Midwest. This isn't southern California or Florida or The Promised Land, where things grow outside all year long. Perhaps if I moved to one of those places, I could finally relax when I go to the market. Perhaps I could actually not feel like the farmers' market was a ticking bomb, and I'd be able to spend less than that forty dollars each time I went. Perhaps I'd be able to breathe with a more open set of lungs when I caught my first glimpse of the produce bounty each week. I mean, these things are probably all true. It'd all be more like a normal activity, perhaps even mundane. It'd be like less of a challenge, and I'd get a little less nervous. I could focus my energy on other things, like shoe cobbling and candle-making. But, really. Honestly. What's the fun in that?
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