Saturday Market Rules

Elderly woman in a long coat and scarf at an outdoor farmers market, holding a canvas bag full of herbs and vegetables, smiling as she talks to a vendor, bright morning light, colorful produce stalls around her, warm and grounded

I head out with a plan: eggs, dill, maybe tomatoes. But then I bump into Val from the library, who tells me about her cat’s new diet. Then I meet a man selling carrots who insists they taste like “childhood in June.” I try one. He’s right. The plan dissolves — replaced by real life. It’s beautiful.

There’s a slowness to Saturday mornings that I adore. No one is in a rush — except the man who wants all the ripe peaches before anyone else (there’s always one). You walk, stop, taste cheese, feel a lemon, laugh at a dog in a sweater. It’s not chaotic, it’s jazz. Improvised, casual, soulful.

One week it was beet jam. Last week — a loaf of bread so crusty it nearly cracked my tooth. Today? A chunk of fresh cheese wrapped in paper, still warm. I don’t need any of it, strictly speaking. But that’s the point. The unplanned things are what make the bag — and the day — feel full.

The woman who sells herbs always remembers I like more stalk than leaves. The honey guy gives me a taste from the same spoon. We don’t know each other well, but we share a rhythm. These aren’t friends in the classic sense — but they know me. And I know them. That’s enough.

I slice, I boil, I toast, I taste. It’s simple — eggs with herbs, bread with butter, tomatoes cut thick. But after a morning among real people, real voices, and food that smells like earth and sun, it feels like a feast. I eat slowly, with the window open. Nothing profound. Just really, really good.