Seattle 127, or Market to Market

In Seattle, nobody just goes to the market. In the same way that nobody just goes to the coffee shop, but to their coffee shop, Seattlites go to their farmer's market. It could be the one in their neighborhood - there are over a dozen throughout the city. It could be the one with the best cheese vendor, the preferred produce farm, or the only one to sell mutton.

My market is Saturday mornings, one of the bigger ones, but it grows and shrinks throughout the year. It's at its fullest now - four rows of stalls, and a few scattered vendors on the green. It's in the parking lot of the neighborhood community center - there's a playground, and a picnic spot, and music everywhere.

I usually do my weekly grocery shopping at the market - vegetables, eggs, cheese, fish - but with the weekly farm box coming in, I've no need for basics. Today, I came in with a hankering for a gallon jug of the apple cider vinegar that makes my beans taste magical, but they were sold out - everyone's doing their canning and pickling now. I'll have to wait until next week.

I decide to have fun instead. The heat in Seattle has been glorious this week, inspiring salads and cold pasta and gazpacho. I pick up tomatoes, fresh basil, a ball of mozzerella. Almost as an aside, I pick up a quart of chocolate milk - made with cocoa powder instead of syrup, so it's not too sweet. I drink half of it in the shade, waiting for D to finish shopping, savoring the bits of cream and chocolate across my tongue.