Farmers' Market

If I were a real blogger and had my posts tagged for future reference with cute labels such as "My Fab Four" and "Love My Hubby" and "Life Is Grand," the tag on this post would be "Why Do I Even Bother?"

Regular readers of this blog may have noticed my interest preoccupation obsession with my tomatoes this spring, including my joy and delight when the elaborate contraption I built to house them seemed to be working, then my despair when the first fruits were diseased. I have spent many, many hours and way too much money trying to coax production out of my plants, so much that Boy#1 sent me an e-mail implying that perhaps my priorities were beginning to skew.

"Just ask yourself this question: If the house was on fire, and you only had time to save either your sons or your tomato plants, which would you save?"

Well, that's easy. The tomato plants are outside, so I don't have to choose. So there, Mr. Smarty-pants. 

Anyway, Saturday was the first day of the year I've been around to visit Small Town's weekly farmers' market. It's half a block long, but traveling that half a block took more than an hour because I knew practically every farmer and artist, and had to talk to Julie about the cinnamon bread, and to Michelle about her metal sculptures, and to Katherine about the knitting, and so on and so on. 

When I finished, my shopping bag was filled with tomatoes, zucchini, yellow squash, the aforementioned cinnamon bread, a huge bunch of beets, and two cucumbers that were thrown in my bag for free because I'd played the piano at church for the farmer. 

Grand total for all of this fresh-from-the-dirt(-and-oven-in-the-case-of-the-bread) local produce? $20.25.

Okay, this post may have to be tagged "Why Do I Even Bother?" but I'd have to add a second, more accurate tag: "I Love Small Town." 

Because, boy-oh-boy, I do.