There's a long, snaking line at the farmers' market. Waiting amidst the melting shoppers, I'm juggling too many ripe tomatoes, feeling like a last minute Cirque du Soleil understudy forced to go on. Twisting, shifting tomatoes from right to left, (yet fearful of losing my place in line), I gingerly tuck one tomato in the crook of my neck and embrace the remaining heirlooms, cautiously hugging them against my white t-shirt. In short, I should have snagged a basket. The woman next to me is pawing through a collection of garlic scapes, turning them over and over, asking no one in particular, "What should I do with these?" I long to respond, "Stop touching them, for starters" but bite my tongue. Inching my way to the front of the line, I debate whether picking up a few ears of corn means sacrificing the tomatoes.
"Next?" Is my access to the produce scale. Not-so-gently setting the tomatoes down, I turn around and grab half a dozen ears (six for $5.00 is agreeable; more so when you stop to think about the farmer who is tending the cornfield in this heat) and two of the garlic scapes because they're within reach, and I love them. The corn refuses to lie still so I slip the garlic scapes over my wrist. "Whose tomatoes are these?" the cashier asks the crowd. Sheepishly I plunk down the corn and hold up my garlic scape bracelets. "Yes, yes," I confirm, "and these," pointing to the corn, "and these" displaying my garlic scape jewelry. "Do you want to buy a dozen eggs?" the cashier asks innocently. I can't even imagine navigating the tomatoes and the corn in the tiny canvas bag clutched in my sweaty palm. Adding a dozen eggs to the mix? Perish the thought.
Professional Pie-isms & Seasonal Sarcasm