Instead of reading Mary Austin this morning, like I told myself I would, I found myself driving along West 12th street scanning for Farmer's Markets. I fell head over heels for fresh fruit and veggies over the summer, when I had nothing to do but read, write, and eat. Why not?
It's a careful process, selecting the healthiest, most delicately-garden-picked scrumptiousness. I would probably scour the rows and rows of baskets and cartons and bins forever if excitement over the colors didn't detour me. It's called zig-zagging.
Peppers. Just look at them! I've recently acquired a taste for bell peppers, but those fantastic colors! And, naturally, I smell everything. Peaches. Plums. Fresh-from-the-dirt potatoes.
Since Fall is basically nipping our heels, gourds and pumpkins and utensils to scoop out the goopiest of goop beckoned. I picked up the ugliest of gourds and smoothed my fingers over every bumpy edge. Tactile learning.
I ended up limiting my purchases. I only bought 4 green tomatoes (to fry up and gush over), an apple pie (to serve a la mode, of course), and a quart of raspberries.
My fingers stained purple after an hour. The raspberries never left my van.
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