There is little sweeter that the simple pleasure of a farmer’s market. Here, the people gather. Here you may taste what you like, smell the aromas, caress the visual textures. It is like a vacation for the senses.
My roommate and I went to the farmer’s market this evening. The sun was setting. I particularly wanted to smell the flowers. It has been a long week, and Wednesday seems like the perfect day to sniff flowers. The flowers were perfect. We also found an exceptionally sweet cantaloupe. I admired a few succulents, daydreaming about when I have a garden and I can grow things like basil and cacti. Also tomatoes. The heirloom tomatoes were as big as a ripe pumpkin.
We briefly scanned other goods: crystal necklaces, beaded bracelets, jars of honey. I began wondering about what gifts I will buy for Christmas. And I thought about how different an artisan craft is: what you make with your own two hands is what you sell. What you sell is your only profit. No security of a salary, but utter freedom to come and go as you please.
We walked back to our car. The fog was settling in like a soft blanket on the ocean, and the color was fading to gray. I was excited about the warm bowl of soup I would prepare at home. My senses were satisfied. It had been a great Wednesday.