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.


About Bonnie Larson Staiger

I'm a poet. Writing is an extension of who I am. On my blog, North Dakota Roots, I share some poetry and some observations about life.
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One Response to Farmer’s Market

  1. Hi! I just happened upon this site today. Stayed around a bit to take a look around and browse a number of your posts… good stuff. I’ll be returning around once again later on without a doubt.

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