My friend Kent chides me when I climb on a religious soap box (often after a glass or four of vino) that such behavior is “sanctimonious bullshit.” Like the year I gave up Twitter for Lent, but lasted all of 2 weeks and tweeted him to say so.
His response “Sanctimonious, Donley. Sactimonious.”
Well, in these here parts, the summer farmers markets are the cream of the crop. Folks here live for Saturdays, where they wheel their kids in wagons and drag dogs on leashes down to the library parking lot for fresh produce. It is a touch sacreligious to suggest this tradition is anything other than the right thing to do — spending $4 per tomato. Carting glass bottles of grass-fed dairy back to your house on the back of your overly-priced cruiser, nested in hand woven baskets from a women’s cooperative in Ghana. Singing John Denver songs as you whistle while you work. (Song birds on your shoulders optional.)
Don’t get me wrong. I love eating locally, supporting farmers, a good chorus of Kumbaya, and all that hoo ha. I don’t love over priced crap sold under the guise of being part of a farmers market. I also don’t love how wholly yuppie this experience feels. Saturday could have been an ad for that ridiculous book, “Stuff White People Like.”
What is that predator I hear barking from a nearby tree? Everyone! Cover your eggs!
There. I said it. I don’t love farmers markets and I realize that my neighbors may have my head for it. But in this case, it’s sanctimonious chicken shit. If I need a cultural tomato buying experience, I’m far more comfortable adventuring to the Mexican grocery stores on Federal.
SANCTIMONIOUS. I KNOW.
Did someone say chicken? YUM.
Speaking of chickens — Nelson and I headed to a nearby chicken class afterward and guess what? We are turning in the permit and payment today. Coop prep starts this week, including coordinating a ridiculous neighborhood meeting. Also, teaching Nelson chickens are friends not food.*
* My father thinks this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. HEY DAD. ROOT FOR ME. xoxo