Saturday Morning = St. Lawrence Market

It was earlier than I would normally choose to leave the coziness of the warm man sleeping next to me, especially on a weekend, but at least since it's summer, it was light out. I strolled out onto the empty streets. The morning was still chilly because the sun hadn't made it over the edges of the high rise condo buildings on my street. I'm always surprised by how many people are on the subway at this time of day on a Saturday. Like me, catching the first train south.
I love the Farmer's Market. I love stepping through the doors and hearing the buzz - farmers talking to people buying food. It's the simplest form of commerce. The earlier you go, the better. It's first thing in the morning when the sumptuous bounty of our country is most in evidence. Fruits and vegetables are still piled high in bright pyramids. Loaves of bread are laid out like presents. Cuts of meat glisten lasciviously in the slants of light that creep in from windows high in the ceiling. When I was little, there was an entrance that I couldn't use because I was afraid to walk by the whole pigs and pig heads hanging in one butcher's coolers. The too-human fleshiness of it was terrifying. It is still disconcerting for this very urban population of shoppers; we are so far removed from the source of our sustenance, and the work and mess that growing it entails. Coming to this market makes me feel more in touch. I buy my tomatoes from the man that grew them. I know who raised the cow for this steak. I've even seen where it grazed when I visited the farm once. This makes sense to me.
I always get a little carried away when I go to the market. It's the bounty. I want to take it all home with me. It doesn't help that I am friendly with many of the vendors, and end up buying mushrooms just so I can say hi and catch up with the Mushroom Girl without her getting in trouble from her Aunt ("I'm helping a customer!"). My shopping buddy, my mother, contributes to the over-purchasing: "so-and-so's asparagus is really good right now" and "We tried those pies last week and they are sooo good." The final straw this week was a flat of strawberries. My mother talked me into splitting one with her ("These ones are to die for!"), and of course I ended up carrying it. A girl with a huge box of strawberries attracts a lot of attention. One guitar-playing busker changed his song for me as we went by, adding in something like: "Strawberry, strawberry, I really love your strawberries!".
The strawberry really sums it up for me. I don't eat off-season berries driven up in an 18-wheeler from California. It's a special treat to wait for the right time of year when the local ones are ready and ripe. It's worth the wait. It's worth the early-morning trip to the market to get them.