Farmer’s Market

Gentle Reader: A summer Saturday morning means I head for the farmer’s market. Today’s irony: one vendor had kohlrabi the size of cantelope and garlic the size of key limes.

I came home with red swiss chard, sugar snap peas, and new potatoes (white ones) the size of golf balls. The tiny woman selling the potatoes had surrendered several front teeth many years ago and smiling face was simply delightful. She held the bag so I could choose whichever potatoes I wanted but said she would fill the bag if I didn’t want to get my hands dirty. How could I? Her potatoes were about as clean as they could be without scrubbing the skins off and yet they still had those lovely bits of papery flakes of skin.

I was quick to say that anyone coming to a farmer’s market and not wanting to get their hands dirty sure didn’t grow up in North Dakota.

Author: Bonnie Larson Staiger

Published and persistent poet. Frequent hermit. Fascinated with the fusion of the written word on the printed page. Writing is an extension of who I am. On my blog, North Dakota Roots, I share some poetry and some observations about life.

One thought on “Farmer’s Market”

Comments for me? I'd love to hear from you?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s