Embarrassment of Riches
It’s searing and too bright. First the crowds. Turn the corner past the movie theater and see the shining, shimmering throngs nosing between stalls. Always a shock, from the still of our living room and out among these hundreds.
Our first priorities are berries and bread, most weeks. Get the good bread. The durum flour sesame sourdough from Basecamp Bakery. A threepack from Ortiz Farms. Black, blue, razz. Too late and they’re out.
Elbow past Bicycle Coffee and the dim sum tent. The line is long, but Dungeness crab dumplings and pea shoot wontons. Dab a little soy sauce and hot oil in the takeout carton.
It’s summer and the townsfolk are showing off. Braids flowing down, skies out thighs out, yoga pants, earthy and easy. The twentysomethings are sitting cross-legged in the grass, on the little hillock, eating Doña’s Tamales over Splash Pad Park.
We stroll past the Bolani guy, the Ethiopian coffee with its stools and pewter cups. We head to the back, towards the fresh squeezed juice stall that only accepts Bitcoin. Maybe a wedge of Broncha from the Petaluma dairy farm. Red shoots of rhubarb from the chili ranch.
It’s summer at the Grand Lake Farmers Market and the produce is gleaming. Blatant. Shishito peppers, heirloom tomatoes, melons too large to contemplate, squash in many shapes, zucchini blossoms ready to be battered and fried. Best to stay back from the stone fruit. Overplump, vainglorious. White peaches, nectarines, plums that take you back to your grandmother’s house. Free samples, slices handed out to taste. All too fragrant.
I grab heirloom tomatoes in two colors, a handful of basil. I’ll make a caprese stack. A head of cauliflower. Roasted, it’ll go with a summery pasta. I’m learning how to make a good sauce. When to caramelize, how to make a roux, when to deglaze with white wine.
A confession. A difficult one: There are days when I don’t go. It is half a block from our front door. This feels so shameful to admit. Kerstin asks almost every week. “Should we go to the farmers market?” Inside, the room is so stuffy, so safe. I am immobilized. I resent how idyllic and beautiful it will be.
I spend the morning on the couch, on the computer. Doing laundry, video games. Staying indoors feels sinful. But some Saturdays I can’t join humanity. It’s wrong, like a misanthropy in my bones that I should pray away. For so long, we couldn’t leave the house, now every moment spent inside is an insult to life.
The colored popcorn, the lavender cheesecakes, too whimsical. I want to wallow. The siren’s call, stuff beeswax in my ears. Fuck, the beeswax! Honey in six colors, every size jar. Large ingots of wax and dripping honeycomb on a tray.
Across MacArthur, Aaron Warren is rapping his drums. At a tiny round table, a guy in a conical Sorcerer’s Apprentice hat and fake beard has a little chalkboard advertising: “Dungeons & Dragons – 5 Minutes Free” and he has a small crowd leaning in, sucked into the adventure. Toddlers are barefoot in the fountain, their parents munching pizza and listening to the homestyle quartet.
Leaving the house is an act of penitence. Disappearing into the crowd is absolution. I am the obstacle. Take me out of myself. Reach your hand into the cartons of mushrooms. Maitake, cremini, lion’s mane. Squeeze the flesh into a paper sack.
The kindly bearded guy and laughing woman in front of us bought the last loaf of sesame bread. Kerstin cried out in mock dismay – every Saturday it returns, half a block away – and she just gave it to us! The last of the good bread. An act of grace, freely given, undeserved.
I am undeserving. Not alone. We are here.
