Saturday Market.

Yesterday morning, I was unable to get my mother to go 'all the way down to Seattle' for the Harvest Fair, so instead we visited the Saturday Farmers Market in downtown Edmonds. The wonderful thing about local farmers markets is that one is almost sure to run into people one knows. And yesterday was no exception! We ran into everyone -- family friends, the parents of my mother's former students, and my dear friends, Bear and Surinthia.

The atmosphere in places like these is so very different than that of the grocery store or the supermarket. Every event has something special to look forward to, some element of surprise. The little twin violinists were there as they have been for years, now, but there are often other musicians, whether it be vendors showing off their plastic saxophones or touring groups playing lighthearted Peruvian folk dances. And everywhere, people are talking and laughing and eating ice cream, drinking lemonade. People stop for pretty trinkets, and I pass by a baker's stand with longing. "That's the gluten-free bakery's stand," my mother says. She had brought me food from there, last time she went, as a consolation for not being able to go anywhere until I finished my school finals. This time, I bought a little wedge of fudge and ate it slowly. It was, on the whole, a beautiful day, as easy and free as any I ever spent in Europe.

I am not extraordinarily fond of most grocery stores. The way they pile huge stacks of fruits and vegetables, the mirrors they put at the backs of their binds, as though to make their supplies seem endless. The bright lights and rumbling refrigerators appeal very little to my senses, and while my mother finishes her shopping, I am altogether content to wander around the narrow aisles, among the bags of coffee beans or bottles of salad dressing and vinegar, ignoring the flashy bags and bottles about.

I prefer the smaller, dryer stores, the kind that smells of dried herbs and tea when you walk in. A Reformhaus, in other words, like the ones we went to in Germany. The Co-op is like that, and so is Manna Mills. Trader Joes is not this way, but it manages by careful imitation to pull off the same vibes. The coziness and comfort of these places lies in the way they are set up. They do not attempt to be impressive or to press extra mental baggage upon the customer, and thus they are a more comfortable place to be. The employees, here, too, know what is in their food and can direct a person with any familiar dietary issue to delicious, edible food. These places also are set up enough like grocery stores to be convenient and easy-to-use.

The open farmers markets are funamentally another animal, altogether. The farmer's market is a place where one not only goes to shop for fresh vegetables, flowers, and handicrafts, but where one also goes to talk, to smile, to share with friends, to be around people. I have had conversations at these places with people I have never met before in my life, and vague school acquaintences, people I pass by daily but never talk to, come up to me to talk about summer vacation and anything and everything else. Even the time is more relaxed, here, for few who come here have other immediate obligations.

A market is the sort of place where one goes to browse. It does not have the convenience of the convenience store, where everything is sorted by product rather than grower/maker and is available to anyone, 24/7. It does not have the welcome disconnect and lack of responsibility which have been identified by Michael Pollan and others as one of the chief traits of industrial food sales.This may be why many people regard farmers markets as something special to do once or twice a year rather than something to attend weekly, as long as it lasts. Whatever the reason, it would seem that the people at market yesterday were happier and more content than they would have been in any grocery store.