On Saturday mornings, I love going to the farmer’s market. It’s a leftover habit from Halifax, when I’d go there for Saturday noodles, very strong French roast coffee, and croissants from Mary’s breadbasket. I’d then have to decide in which room to sit, in the smaller area by Mary’s or in the large hall in front of the Keith’s brewery - often it came down to who was busking where. There was this one guy who was pretty tuneless, and sang angry union songs that didn’t seem to make much sense. Or there were the two young kids who were wizards on the fiddle. There was also a string quartet occasionally, or a six-piece bluegrass band. My favourite was the kid on the classical guitar - he couldn’t have been more than 11 or 12, but man, that kid had more talent in his pinky that most people have in their whole body.
The market here isn’t nearly as big or grand as the one in Halifax. There are a few artisians, a few food vendors (Mexican, Jamacian, Chinese, and the Perogie Princess), and some farmers outside. I love getting my veggies here, and yesterday I got some yellow wax beans, raspberries, peaches (from Niagara - ha!), and corn on the cob. The raspberries got crushed, so I mashed them with some sugar for breakfast this morning. The beans are for supper tonight, and the peaches need to ripen up some. The corn was eaten as soon as I got home yesterday. I also had a lovely chat with the couple who operate the coffee stand - his mother is from Cape Breton, and we often swap stories about goings on out there.
There’s something conforting about my Saturday morning ritual, and come winter, I’ll miss going.
