My first farmer's market in a place where farms abound. This put my suburban farmer's market experience to shame - row upon row of booths from vegetables to dairy to meats, with a couple of folk singers strumming in front of their open guitar cases in between. The peddlers ranged from grandmotherly types selling homemade jams, jellies, and pies, to southeast Asian immigrants selling bunches of Thai basil.
The trucks selling meats had menus an arm's length long, with sausages and sandwich meats, steaks and bratwursts. The Amish were there selling pastries from the back of their truck (yes, they had a truck too), and the Norwegians staffed the lefse tent. I tasted my first lefse - like a heartier crepe, rolled with butter, sugar and cinnamon.
As we purchased a small loaf of banana bread, the shopkeeper glanced at the sky. "Did you hear? There's a big storm coming." "No, I didn't realize," I said, and went merrily strolling towards the next booth, assuming that I should batten down the hatches for later that afternoon. A few minutes later, tall, dark clouds were looming to the west. The storm was bearing down on us, and we realized we only had a few minutes to reconnoiter. "Quick, the $3 raspberries! You get the Amish cinnamon rolls! A small bag of spring mix, please?" The farmers were grabbing and stacking dollar bills as quickly as they could collect them, one eye on the sky, and one eye on their wares, desperate to maximize the take before the storm bore down on them. Shoppers were streaming out from the marketplace, including the acting troupe who had been performing the Music Man - they crowded towards the exit in their suits, straw hats and frocks, singing in harmony as they went.
As we fled towards our car, we could hear the rain roaring towards us like a watery curtain, the shrieks from soaked pedestrians getting closer and closer by the moment. By the time we were in the car, the rain was pelting down on the remaining marketgoers and sellers. Puddles were beginning to stretch along the roads. The sky had completely transformed itself with the suddenness of a solar eclipse. And we departed the farmer's market to make our local lunch, marveling at the fury of a Midwestern storm.
The trucks selling meats had menus an arm's length long, with sausages and sandwich meats, steaks and bratwursts. The Amish were there selling pastries from the back of their truck (yes, they had a truck too), and the Norwegians staffed the lefse tent. I tasted my first lefse - like a heartier crepe, rolled with butter, sugar and cinnamon.
As we purchased a small loaf of banana bread, the shopkeeper glanced at the sky. "Did you hear? There's a big storm coming." "No, I didn't realize," I said, and went merrily strolling towards the next booth, assuming that I should batten down the hatches for later that afternoon. A few minutes later, tall, dark clouds were looming to the west. The storm was bearing down on us, and we realized we only had a few minutes to reconnoiter. "Quick, the $3 raspberries! You get the Amish cinnamon rolls! A small bag of spring mix, please?" The farmers were grabbing and stacking dollar bills as quickly as they could collect them, one eye on the sky, and one eye on their wares, desperate to maximize the take before the storm bore down on them. Shoppers were streaming out from the marketplace, including the acting troupe who had been performing the Music Man - they crowded towards the exit in their suits, straw hats and frocks, singing in harmony as they went.
As we fled towards our car, we could hear the rain roaring towards us like a watery curtain, the shrieks from soaked pedestrians getting closer and closer by the moment. By the time we were in the car, the rain was pelting down on the remaining marketgoers and sellers. Puddles were beginning to stretch along the roads. The sky had completely transformed itself with the suddenness of a solar eclipse. And we departed the farmer's market to make our local lunch, marveling at the fury of a Midwestern storm.
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