Are you yet living?
Deep red dahlias the size of dessert plates.
Heirloom tomato salsa.
Bundles of organic basil.
These are the sights that greet me as I enter the weekly farmers' market in downtown Santa Cruz, California. The Boy and I have just longboard skateboarded here from our hotel room. We are on vacation, carefree.
Santa Cruz is located approximately one hour north of California’s Salinas Valley, which is often referred to as “the salad bowl of America”. I see good reason for the name as I enter the little makeshift village of awnings. I peer into each tent I pass and begin to get the feeling that Hagrid has been to visit each of these farms with his flowery pink umbrella, such is the size of the produce. Clearly, the growing season here is longer than in Utah.
Ah, but sorely I face constraints: I’m limited to purchasing what I can carry home in my backpack, store in my Igloo cooler, and eat within the next four days of my stay. Tantalus doesn’t know how I feel! I’m immediately stricken over the fact that I can’t buy any of the flowers; they’d look silly sticking out of a Gatorade bottle, the closest thing I have to a vase back in my dimly lit hotel room, so I resign myself to strolling the aisles and admiring them, one by one. I lift my hand to a blossom which looks like it’s been constructed of a thousand strips of white and pink tulle tied together with a pipe cleaner. I spread my fingers to size it up and find that the flower is larger than my hand.
An hour later, I emerge from the little makeshift village with the following bounty: a pint of blueberries picked yesterday, a pint of strawberries so ripe I’m afraid they’ll juice in my bag, two organic “Honey Kist” yellow peaches, a bundle of carrots, a cacao macaroon, glistening dates, an avacado, the heirloom tomato salsa, and a slab of smoked gouda cheese.
Lacey carrot greens plume from the top of my backpack like an organic antenna as I commute back to the hotel. My “peddling” leg soon realizes how heavily I’m laden as I fight the extra resistance of my poly wheels against the street. I cut a few happy turns, but remember to beware the cracks in the pavement! (Just yesterday I took a spill.) The Boy’s bearings purr behind me. I glance sidelong to find that I’m sharing the bike lane with a cyclist whose front basket is laden with a flat of nectarines. He’s cycling dreamily, a big smile on his bearded face. I suddenly realize that life could not be simpler or better than this. I give a swift kick to my board and edge ahead. I’m ready to get home and eat my way through July, its juices dripping down my chin.