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The Danville Farmers' Market can be brutal, especially if you're trying to get to the the peaches or the tomatoes in high season. The corn, thank goodness, has a more-or-less organized line, courtesy of the corn farmers whom, I suspect, got tired of witnessing the suburban brutality.
And crowded. I've tried waiting patiently for my turn, and been elbowed out by sweet looking grannies with murderous looks in their eyes. By daddies who think they're still linebackers and we are the opposing team, by aggressive moms swinging a baby from one hip and a huge purse from the other. And the throng doesn't clear out until only shriveled bits of fruit remain. The vultures have nothing on the folks at the Farmers' Market.
So I've learned to just wade in and take my chances. And one morning, reaching for a ripe heirloom tomato, having just taken yet another elbow in the stomach - oof - I heard a familiar voice.
"Oh. My. God! What are you doing here? Your parole officer was just looking for you! And girlfriend, how did you get that ankle bracelet off?!?"
All of a sudden I had the tomatoes to myself. Which would have been great if I hadn't been laughing so hard I was doubled over. Hard to grab a tomato when you're holding on to your sides.
It was my friend. My adorable, hysterically funny, take-no-prisoners friend.
I suspect the watching crowds thought she was brave to hug an obvious fugitive from justice. We laughed, we talked, we told stories. She showed me her favorite farmers - not the obvious crowded ones, but the lavender lady in the corner and the shy man with just a few apricots, so flavorful with each bite the juice ran down your chin, and memories from childhood came flooding back.
She is a fabulous story teller. Get her to tell you about picking lemons in Israel. In a Lily Pulitzer dress. Priceless. The story, not the dress. She is the friend I call when I'm having a great day - she will laugh with me. She is the friend I call when I am melting into tears and the world seems mean.
Everyone needs a friend like this in their life. I am privileged to have the original. Lucky me.
And crowded. I've tried waiting patiently for my turn, and been elbowed out by sweet looking grannies with murderous looks in their eyes. By daddies who think they're still linebackers and we are the opposing team, by aggressive moms swinging a baby from one hip and a huge purse from the other. And the throng doesn't clear out until only shriveled bits of fruit remain. The vultures have nothing on the folks at the Farmers' Market.
So I've learned to just wade in and take my chances. And one morning, reaching for a ripe heirloom tomato, having just taken yet another elbow in the stomach - oof - I heard a familiar voice.
"Oh. My. God! What are you doing here? Your parole officer was just looking for you! And girlfriend, how did you get that ankle bracelet off?!?"
All of a sudden I had the tomatoes to myself. Which would have been great if I hadn't been laughing so hard I was doubled over. Hard to grab a tomato when you're holding on to your sides.
It was my friend. My adorable, hysterically funny, take-no-prisoners friend.
I suspect the watching crowds thought she was brave to hug an obvious fugitive from justice. We laughed, we talked, we told stories. She showed me her favorite farmers - not the obvious crowded ones, but the lavender lady in the corner and the shy man with just a few apricots, so flavorful with each bite the juice ran down your chin, and memories from childhood came flooding back.
She is a fabulous story teller. Get her to tell you about picking lemons in Israel. In a Lily Pulitzer dress. Priceless. The story, not the dress. She is the friend I call when I'm having a great day - she will laugh with me. She is the friend I call when I am melting into tears and the world seems mean.
Everyone needs a friend like this in their life. I am privileged to have the original. Lucky me.
LOVE our Farmer's Market -- hate the parking situation after 10am ... And I'm the idiot who buys an entire flat of strawberries at a time so I like to park within a block.
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