The Farmer's Market at Saratoga Street is one of this city's gems. Every Sunday morning, from May to Christmas, a dingy highway underworld transforms into a bustling marketplace where all walks of life converging in pursuit of fresh produce. Of course, buying direct from farmers --feels-- better than shopping in the store, and being very conscious of my food miles and sustainability, I'm very excited to visit the market and eat seasonally available local produce and buy cage-free organically-fed chicken eggs. It's also kind of an impromptu meeting place; yesterday I ran into my dentist and a former co-worker and a girlfriend.
Before heading down to the market, I cleaned out my refrigerator to discard the remains of the last trip to the Farmer's Market: a full bowl of cherries; a bag of spinach, never touched; a pound of zucchini, also not touched; and some rotting tomatoes. Alas.
So I restocked with more cucumbers and tomatoes, but kept it at that (except for a glorious haul of fresh-cut flowers, but that's a story for a blog of a different name). Then we were enticed by the long line at the falafel stand.
This stand was being manned by a pack of hippies who were dancing, singing, and making falafel like there was nothing else in the world they would rather be doing. Three people each had discrete jobs: the pita toaster, the falafel fryer, and the sandwich assembler. The assembly was kind of like art - patrons could select toppings of blueberries, beets, pickled cukes, kimchee, tahini, lettuce, honey. They had nectarines, but were out by the time we arrived. I braved the berries, honey, tahini, and lettuce on my sandwich, and it was delicious and beautiful. Made with love, too.
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