Farmer’s Market, by Nancy Pahl
I can still smell the rosemary on my mother’s fingers.
“What herb?” she would ask, extending her hands towards me.
With my eyes squeezed shut, I would lean in and inhale, ticking herbs off in my head. Not dill. Not cilantro. Not fennel. Basil was the easiest. Thyme always gave me trouble.
It was a game we liked to play, this herb guessing game. “Run outside and cut me some parsley,” she would say. There was a small pair of “food scissors” in our house that were specifically meant for this moment. Scissors in hand, I would rush outside, happy to be a part of the process. I was well aware of my pivotal role as herb-cutter: the oil in the pan was getting hot, the raw slabs of meat needed seasoning, and time was ticking people.
These early years of cutting herbs helped me maneuver my way around the kitchen once I got older. More importantly, they instilled in me an appreciation for the forms that foods take before they’re tossed into a skillet.
In the aromatic heat of my mother’s kitchen, I was introduced to the story of food: not only the scents and textures and flavors, but the spiritual practice of cooking. It’s grounding, healing, meditative. Hands in dough, pressing, pushing, fine white flour like grains of sand on your skin. The music of a knife against a cutting board, chopping, mincing, dicing. The sizzle of olive oil in cast iron, the burst of a cherry tomato in your mouth, the bubbling steam of a simmering sauce, the sharp scent of a raw onion pulling tears from your eyes.
If what happens in the kitchen is a daily spiritual practice, then there must be a public gathering place to act as a temple. And that temple is the farmer’s market.
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When I graduated from my mother’s herb-cutter to her farmer’s market basket-carrier, it was the greatest of promotions. She would peruse from stall to stall, calling over her shoulder to me:
“G, pick us out the prettiest strawberries you can find.”
“G, grab us a head of that French Red Blush lettuce.”
“G, do you mind standing in line for the peaches?”
It was at these markets I learned the language of food, before the plate. It is a long-lost language, the language of livelihood, of gritty work ethic and a devotion to the land, to our ancestral roots, and to our present bodies.
At these markets, you move slowly and quietly. If someone unknowingly cuts you in line, you let them. You bring your dog, but only if it’s well-behaved. You always bring your own basket. You ask the farmers how they personally like to prepare their produce (“Do you roast these? How do you like to season those?”). And if there is a French lady selling pastries, you always, always stop for one.
The best part about farmer’s markets?
The hand-written signs in front of each stall:
“We use zero pesticides, chemicals, or additives.”
“Grass-fed, pasture-raised, 100% organic beef.”
The result is that farmer’s market food is often “ugly.” Compared to the glossy sheen and jumbo size of the apples we see in the supermarket, farmer’s market crab apples are dirty and gnarled. Carrots are knobby and oddly shaped, like broken fingers. Loaves of bread sprout mold in just three days.
That’s because the food is real. And nothing about real food is convenient.
Rain or shine, farmers load up their pickup trucks with crates of produce and freezers of meat. They bring ponchos and hats and folding chairs, speakers and sunscreen and tumblers of coffee, and they spend the day selling fragments of their land and hard work.
Similarly, a cult of people still wake up early to get in line first, to grab the prettiest carton of strawberries or the most flavorful handful of shallots. They go out of their way to reward their bodies with real food, and to support the ones who make it possible.
Like a religious experience, farmer’s markets are a gathering place for people who believe in something bigger than themselves. It takes effort and sacrifice and intentionality.
Last week, my mother and I walked around the farmer’s market together. It was misting rain, the kind that sneaks up on you and all of a sudden you’re soaking wet. Even in the pooling mud puddles, people meandered around slowly, taking their time, breathing it all in.
We bought a bunch of carrots and a basket of broccoli sprouts from one lady, who said:
“Make sure you leave the flowers on the broccoli sprouts. They’re edible and delicious. And make sure you save the carrot tops – you can toss them in the skillet and they make a great garnish.”
As she handed us the produce, where dirt still clung to the roots, she looked us in the eye. “Thank you for being here in the rain today,” she said. “It means the world.”
Thank you for reading The G Word today! It means the world. ;)
Until next week,
G
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Grace, I love how this piece turned out. This is a beautiful ode to farmer's markets. I feel like anyone that works at a farmer's markets would read this and feel moved.
I also love seeing how you edit a piece and end up with the finished products. The choices you make, the feedback you decline. The compressions. The expansions. They are very helpful for me to watch and learn from. I'm glad to know such a fantastic writer.
Beautiful piece Grace. I was transported to the local market reading this, and I’m headed to the temple in about 3 hours. Thanks for sharing