I realize there are many women in their twenties, and even their teens, who shop at the weekly farmer's market. They are dazzled by the words 'local' and 'organic'. These are often the women who have hit the Martha Stewart phase of their lives and have designated places in their homes for 'crafting'. I am not one of these women. However, as I have learned to accept my hair and my intolerance for yellow curry, I have also accepted that I will probably never frequent Michael's. I will probably never hem my own pants. And that's okay.
I admit I had a prejudice against farmer's markets in my twenties for two reasons. Firstly, Saturday mornings were spent sleeping off hangovers. Even if they weren't, I would have much rather spent the last five dollars in my bank account on light beer as opposed to fresh basil. Secondly, I had a friend whose husband owned an organic farm. He assured me one night over a few too many rum and cokes that 'organic' simply meant that they use different pesticides on their produce than the non-organic farms, and different did not always mean healthier. 'Buying organic is a rip-off,' he assured me, and I believed him.
My apartment is only a few steps away from the Saturday farmer's market. It just re-opened for the summer, and I couldn't help but walk in this morning. It was more than the bustling of people, the barking of dogs, and the giggling of children that lured me in. It was the smell of morning, the promise of ninety-degree weather today, and the friendliness of the vendors. I'm going away this weekend so I didn't stock up on the grapefruit sized artichokes that were calling my name, but I couldn't leave without buying these:
As I left I thought, 'How very woman-in-her-thirties' of me!' and patted myself of the back for supporting local business. I pet a couple of dogs on the way out, sampled some jalapeno jack cheese, and reminded myself that a woman in her thirties shops so often that she can't put a price tag on an enjoyable experience.