I’m undone as usual by the prose poetry of the farmers’ market, and come away with my canvas bags bulging with
. a rotisserie chicken with roasted rosemary potatoes
. one spinach croissant and one pistachio
. a little bag of blood oranges with rosy skins
. mixed greens for braising, and and unruly bunch of dandelion greens
. a jar of my favorite olallieberry preserves
. a ceramic cup of meyer lemon Saint Benoît yogurt (loving the accent with the little hat)
. sausage and apple ravioli
Then just across the street, I see as I’m leaving, is a Bolivian café (named for three sisters and their three daughters), offering warm salteñas, yucca cheese bread, peanut or quinoa soup, Bolivian coffee.
I feel ashamed to find such delight in these worldly things when at the other end of things are women who have no desire to go on with shabby and diminished lives, are widowed, sick, without friends or resources or even the memory of joy.
My pleasure is a kind of prayer as well, for them and me.
image: cucumber selling by an old women, Tracksigndeva
Amazing, I've always loved nice and detailed descriptions of foodies and products alike. I often engage in them when I write. I've grown fond of them since I read one for the first time in Kerouac's "Desolation Angels". He describes the food he finds in the cabinets of a log cabin on Mount Washington, left by the previous fire guard.
ReplyDeleteI also entertain myself with the same kind of small pleasures. They make me feel enriched. I also wish people to discover the beauty of small things!
Thanks for the great post!
Jay: If only I could be satisfied with the lovely sights and smells and descriptions--that would be the perfect diet. Food for the soul. Thanks for the Kerouac reference. My father used to be a fire guard--but Mount Washburn instead. A good place to write, apparently!
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