Farm Fresh, and Out of Reach

So, I went with my Significant Other, and the two poods, to the farmer's market this wonderful AM. So many good things, all in one place that is NOT lit with florescent lighting. You know, some people have never actually seen the true color of a tomato, I swear. I lost count of how many people I heard exclaiming stuff like "Can you believe the color of this thing," and "So that's what an apricot tastes like. Amazing." Having grown up on a Mid-western farm (a series of them, actually,) the only thing that surprised me is how early the fog lifted today. Beautiful day, I must say.

So, toting my strong and colorful shopping bags, and poppin' with moolah (cash only, folks!) I went out among the scurrying shoppers like an icebreaker in Baffin Bay in mid-January. The feet started out just fine, the knee, well, not so much, but I was determined! I was NOT going to let anything spoil this lovely morning, not even the little old ladies of indeterminable ancestry shoving their way toward those incredible plums that had just drawn my gaze and my food lust. They didn't merely elbow their way past me, and several other poor slobs, they flat out DOMINATED their way to the vendor's tables. And there were three freakin' tables!!

But, I was not to be deterred. Being considerably taller than these elvin daemons of the market, I just reached over the top of them. And I was doing pretty good, at first. But one of them, I think it was the 90 year old one (as opposed to the 89 year old one) did what amounts to a body slam, and stepped right on my left foot. Now, I know what you are probably thinking - we were sanctioned for a twelve-round rematch on the Discovery Channel. But, well, no. I merely said, hey, watch it, and she turned to me and gave me this look that I am sure cursed my entire family line going back to Charlemagne.

When they finally left, muttering something about rude boys going to hell, I finally stepped up to the plums, only to discover they had swiped pretty much the vendor's entire plum stock. I looked at him beseechingly (always wanted to use that word - yippee,) and he just shrugged his shoulders. "They like to make plum jam." Oh, really? And how often might that occur, I asked, with an ironic, "oh, yeah" so I thought. He shook his head, "Every week," he said. I decided to avoid this vendor in the future.

But when I went for the nice ripe heirloom tomatoes? It seems they also liked to make and can pasta sauce. I could not freakin' believe it! Anyway, by the time I finished picking over the dregs, and made it back to the car, my feet were screamin', my temper was in shreds, and the damn fog was already rolling back in.

I'm going home to soak my feet. This was the only thing I could hold in my mind, certain these ancient daemons would not be able to access my own foot tub. It was after all in my own house. With my own water.

My mother-in-law was soaking her delicate undergarments in Woolite. In my tub.

Psh. Nap time.