My Farmers' Market

Yesterday morning I went to the local farmers' market in Canton where I live. Many cities have them these days. They provide fresh produce for less than the corporate chains--even if they are unionized--are able to do. Because I wasn't there at the opening hour, the couple I buy from was already sold out of organic vegetables. They had lots of herbs left, but I have those.

So I tried some new booths, asking at each one if they sold organics. Most of them said the same thing: it takes years to become certified by government agencies to say they are organic farmers, but they avowed that they used organic compost to plant in and didn't spray.

I decided to trust them because when I eat in a restaurant, regardless of how good the food is, I have no idea where the food comes from or how it's been raised. At one booth, I buy red potatoes, the small ones for potato salad. At the next one, an old Amish couple sell me golden tomatoes and bright purple bean they promise will turn jade green when I cook them. New colors for familiar vegetables. Children could string the beans and wear them around their necks.

One thing I like about the market is how people come downtown. How they talk, interact, listen to the weekly musician. This week it was a guy in a pork pie hat playing saxaphone to a prerecorded sound system. Across the street there is a yoga class stretching on the grass. Half a dozen dogs are there. But no one has set out water for them. And there are no authorities--the police only show up at night events. Maybe they think crime sleeps in on Saturday mornings, or stays in to watch cartoons.

After I get home, I pull cookbooks off the shelf. Shopping this way makes me aware of how local food is seasonal. This week I will eat what is ripe, right here. I can always make a soup, curry or an etoufee. An Italian cookbook gives me a recipe for steamed beans tossed in olive oil with tomato bits and fresh basil and oregano, I have those things, and will add some goat cheese. For the potatoes, after I boil them, I'll add a cream sause with jalapeno pepper and curry. I have a loaf of French batard from Hazel Artisan Bakery in North Canton, and half a bottle of Chilean Cabernet.

When all is ready to eat, I'll use my internet to get a Latin salsa channel, and read a book, maybe the one on Hemingway in Cuba. How ironic that all this is available to the remains of the middle class life in America because we are the ruling empire. It's not ironic that it's a hard concept to digest.