This is Andy, from Living Earth Farms. Last time I saw him, he was dressed as a sunflower. Next time I see him, he might be popping out at me during the Haunted Hayride at Moon Bughead's Yahoo Farm in Jasper, Georgia about an hour north of Atlanta. I found Andy so enjoyable at the farmers makret yesterday that I bought a big bouquet of zinnias, even though I have patches and patches of butterfly-laden zinnias in my garden. And once again, I'm reminded that that's what the farmers market is all about--the stories you bring home with you along with the products.
My already-back-in-school kids asked, "Are these flowers ours?" and I said, "No, they're from the guy who was dressed as the sunflower, remember him?" And on I went, with dinner story after dinner story.
About Chad the Milk Man, how some of the other farmers call him a rock star because he doesn't arrive until 10:30 AM and a swarm of people flock to his truck as it barrels around the corner in order to pick up the eggs and milk they have pre-ordered.
And Melissa, how she encourages so many people to sample so many of her things that it's a wonder she makes any money.
And Wakeeba, who bubbles over with smiles and warmth as she doles out that fabulous 100% shea butter that works miracles, literally miracles, on dry skin (we have no less than ten containers of it all over our house). How she finally bought a house, her first house, with a spot for a garden, and her pre-teen daughter insisted on coming with her to the lawyer's office to sign the papers. About how that made me cry.
About Corinna Garmon, whose booth is smack in the middle of it all, and whose tomatoes were so glorious that I bought pounds of them, as well as various zebra varieties from Bill Yoder (all of which were gone by bedtime, eaten straight out of our hands, uncut, over the kitchen sink).
And about Parsley's Catering and its soft-spoken chef who did a cooking demonstration, there in the heat, of orange spaghetti squash with roasted tomato sauce, and the big fave of the day, the honeydew melon sorbet, scooped out like melon balls into little tiny cups and shared collectively by a small group of farmers market die-hards, as the thermometer climbed to 102 degrees yet again.
It was just another morning grocery-shopping.
Or was it?
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