Farmer's Markets

Mom suddenly became interested in farmer's markets, and she insisted that we seek out a new one each weekend. After breakfast each Saturday morning, she would strap my bother and I into our car seats where we would be on the lookout for animals grazing in the endless country fields while she consulted her Mapquest printouts. That summer we became familiar with the smell of chicken farms and freshly tilled soybean fields and small Indiana towns named after small German towns. Mom familiarized herself with the varieties of heirloom tomatoes and artisan's cheeses made locally.

There we would be, my baby brother strapped to Mom's chest in a brown, soft cotton sling, chewing on his hands, Mom finishing her coffee, now, long gone lukewarm, and me, holding onto my mother's free hand, kicking at rocks. Mom was always pointing out to me the different flowers and plants people had displayed to sell. "Smell this, buddy," she would say. "This is lavender." The experience was so much more than grocery shopping for her. It was an escape. The three of us would walk through the parking lots, looking at each vendor, tasting their goods, sometimes Mom would ask questions about how to cook some of the more exotic vegetables, but inside, Mom could imagine that she was in a crowded open air market in Paris. She would pick through the rhubarb as though she were an experienced chef who could discern a quality stalk from a lesser. She liked the image she felt she was projecting, that of an Earth mother, surrounded by her children amongst fresh vegetables and fruit and flowers. She felt that this was someone her everyday life, with it's trips to Target, pick-ups from the dry cleaner's, just didn't allow her to be. She found joy in sharing a fresh strawberry with me as we walked through all the people with their excited dogs on leashes. In some ways, in some moments, she felt closest to who she wanted to be.

Although we always took home fresh green beans and asparagus, our bags would inevitably be full of fresh blueberries and strawberries. For us, a pint would never do. Mom would buy the fruit by the quart. And if someone was selling a dozen ears of corn for three dollars, mom wouldn't stop to consider that there were only three people in our family to eat the corn, she would take all twelve. As we would make our way home, my brother and I would nap, our stomachs full of homemade croissants and honey, and Mom would go through her mental catalogue of recipes. Towards the end of the summer, after consulting his bathroom scale, Dad had to finally beg her to not make any more pies. So, for a while, our neighbors became the lucky recipients of her latest passion.

Mom eventually took up other hobbies, she found other avenues down which she would chase that glimpse of herself she had seen once or twice in her mind's eye. But, I will always remember that summer, driving through Indiana's homegrown markets, and the smell of lavender.