Going to the Farmers’ Market could be a long walk or short drive. Because of the six pins and metal plate in my right ankle, I prefer the short drive. Heading to the market, my husband and I pass a strip mall, an elementary school, renovated apartments and the University of Arizona Village Farm. I see a sign at the farm. It says “Mushrooms Workshop This Afternoon.” I smile, imagining bobbing mushroom caps, busy like Santa’s elves, in a workshop shed.
It’s mid-morning in January and the market, across the street from the adobe church is bustling. A variety of people and dogs parade around the canvas covered stalls. At both ends of the market, stone fountains spout towers of water. A few children dip their hands into the cool pools. Their parents pull them back.
I purchase two half-pound bags of fresh pasta. I buy a tan baseball cap for my husband. It carries the brand name of the market: FoodinRoot. Together, we select three shiny red tomatoes and a two-palm sized head of lettuce, picked that morning from the university farm. Damp roots still cling to the green globe. We visit a favorite Greek food vendor and pay ten dollars for quinoa tabbouleh and eight stuffed grape leaves. Tonight’s dinner is complete. Our bag is full of items and we stroll to the nearby financial bank to replenish our wallets.
On the way home, traffic is light and we take Limberlost Road past one hundred sixty acres of the university’s animal research farm. This autumn’s calves chew grass in one field. Scattered horses stand in the shade of a dusty field. A bicyclist on the road signals left. Winter’s noon sun is soft and slanted. Full of its light, the fields open against our desert’s blue skies. We are almost home.
[Exercise for Pace (sentence length) from The Creative Writer’s Notebook/Hemingway Section.]
|FoodinRoot Farmers' Market, St. Philip's Plaza, photo by anita fonte|