Farmers' Market

I've given up on thinking too hard about blog punctuation. "Farmer's or Farmers'?" You bright people know the answer. I would too if I weren't so wiped out.

I spent part of this overcast day in the gym moving plates of weight up and down and side to side. By God I think that this is one of the silliest things I do given that there's always real work to be done.

After, I wobbled toward home and cut through the farmers' market. A skyline of scrubbed beets, carrots and tomatoes competed for altitude and I thought of my Grandma Fieata. Her life was a continual farmers' market of few boundaries. Whether it was dandelions in the spring, berries in the summer, a local produce stand or her own overstuffed garden, she was always on the look out for the holy grail: fresh healthy looking produce cheap.


She would have loved the eye-popping selection at the Capital Hill market. I can't imagine how she would have reacted to the prices but let's just let that go. She might have been bewildered by the Lemon Cucumber. The name's about the shape and exterior, not the taste, if you were wondering.


Me, I thought of how lovely it would be to pick all the cucumbers out of her tomato salad again while she looked on in dismay. Then employ some good Italian bread for the juice. So that's what I'm doing in just a minute. (Please note, none of the pictures of the salad were crisp. I think I was ready to eat.)