Spring Farmers Market

This is the first Moscow Renaissance Fair I have missed in a long, long time. This morning as I drank my cup of coffee I swore I could almost hear music from the main stage, see Tye Dye Everything t-shirts and dresses fluttering in the wind, smell Filipino food and sugary elephant ears, feel the muddy straw twisting under my shoes, watch the smiles of the community I know so well as they meandered by. I could almost hear Mom and Dad (elected King and Queen this year) laughing and joking, Dad deciding to put a down jacket and windstopper hat over his tunic, Mom's red converse (I hope!) peaking out of her long velvet dress.

But here I am in Missoula, Montana.

So to quell the tinges of homesickness I was feeling I  headed downtown to the first Missoula Farmer's Market of the season. Actually, correction: I headed down to the Clark Fork River Market AND the Missoula Farmer's Market. That's right, there are two. I'm not quite sure the reasoning or the politics behind it all (maybe just not enough space in one location?) but as far as I am concerned, two is even better than one.

I'm pretty sure I could have wandered in circles for hours, looking at the damp and fluffy lettuce, deep green spinach, brilliant yellow and red chard, speckled eggs, fragrant baked goods, hand-made crafts, and smiling faces...but three final essays waiting at home called me to get a move on. I bought a few leafy greens here, some swiss chard there, a bunch of rhubarb, some petite carrots, a dozen eggs from an adorable little girl who told me about her family's 40 chickens (and their pooping habits), and a scone for the trip home.

As I walked along Rattlesnake Creek, (breathing in that beautiful rushing water, riparian vegetation smell I love so much) I realized something. Going to the Farmers Market was the first time this semester I had bought food and felt truly good about it. I didn't have to battle traffic on Russell St to escape the Good Food Store parking lot. I didn't have to wonder if what I was buying was just an overpriced "organic!" gimmic. I got to see the faces of the people almost directly involved in growing the food. I carried my purchases home in a bag slung over my shoulder instead of the back of a station wagon. There were no flourecent lights, bar codes, or thick plastic packages.

Have I mentioned how thankful I am recently? Well, I will say it again. I have no idea how I got so lucky as to live in the thriving, vibrant communities of Missoula and Moscow.