Veggie Tales

I am quickly falling in love with the American farmer’s market.

Whether it be in New York City’s Union Square, or Washington D.C.’s Dupont Circle—the two cities in which I divide my time—I find a stroll through a farmer’s market to be a surprisingly moving and deeply satisfying experience.

Maybe it has something to do with the sheer variety and creativity of the produce—why do we call the big box stores “super”markets when there is nothing super about their selections in comparison to these outdoor stalls?

Maybe it has something to do with the organic nature of the offerings—fruits, vegetables and meats free of the pesticides and preservatives that have become a nearly inseparable part of our food consumption.

Maybe it is the undeniable beauty of the offerings—brightly lit produce in shapes and sizes and colors that I find simply gorgeous to behold.

Maybe it is because I gain some sort of liberal satisfaction from dropping my cash into the very same hands of the farmers who pulled or plucked the bounty from the earth.

Or maybe it is because choosing the food from such places speaks to me on a far more primal level. Such markets both enthrall and pain me because I recognize those deficiencies in my daily habits that an urban lifestyle rarely accommodates. It reminds me how far from the earth I live and how much on which I miss out. The closest I come to growing my own food is a basil plant in the windowsill.

As a child, my grandparent’s vegetable garden seemed such an anachronistic throwback, unnecessary and redundant. Now it is an enviable earthy shrine. To nurture, tend, cultivate, harvest and ingest something I planted with my own two hands is a dream…a simple dream…I have.