Farmer's market
Saturday, July 22, 2023
Ash and I went to the farmers market at Forsyth park this morning to buy overpriced coffees, and complain about the heat. I did most of the complaining while everybody else did their best to enjoy the day, scorching sun and all. I tend to stay indoors when the temperature reaches 90, so the fact that I was walking around in 100 degree weather was a feat in itself.
The tents were set up and the chalkboards were out, most of them neglecting to post prices of their products. This is usually an indication that I can’t afford whatever the “farmers” were selling. I stay away from anything labeled “artisanal” or “heritage,” based on the context alone. The stickers on products belched, “locally sourced” and “small batch,” inching people closer to throwing their wallets or first born at the table.
Knowing that the prices of goods at the local market would be exorbitant, I made a coffee at home and wrapped a toasted bagel in aluminium foil to keep it warm before going. That way, I wouldn’t be tempted to waste money at one of the four coffee shops located around Forsyth. Apparently, I was the only frugal one because when we met at the park, the others were in line at the coffee shop. They were ordering $6 lattes, which came out to ten dollars after tax and tip. Meanwhile, I sucked on my to-go coffee container like a child with a sippy cup.
Once everybody had their drinks, we walked through the market to the fountain in the center of the park where people take wedding photos, or snap pictures for tourists. I walked past the display tables, muttering prices under my breath, but loud enough so that Ash could hear.
“$16 for a chicken?! It’s not even cooked,” I’d say, passing the butchery table. A fully cooked rotisserie chicken is $5 at any grocery store, for comparison. Coolers of dying product roasted in the hot sun, cooking the frozen meats to room temperature.
Most of the signs at the tables were handwritten, proof that the workers were too busy pulling vegetables or killing cows to get an actual sign made. Like a “lemonaids” sign written by children, the misspellings were a quaint addition to the overpriced products.
One table was selling frozen lima beens. $2 dollars for a small cup. $10 dollars for a large. Also on the menu, pink eyed peas and fairytale eggplant, which is similar to an eggplant but a quarter of the size for double the price. I consider myself an adventurous eater, but I don’t think I’m brave enough to stomach something with “pink eye” in the description.
The fairytale eggplant was cute, but unaffordable. It’s like the veal of vegetables, a diminished version of its original counterpart. If I knew how to cook it, I might’ve given it a chance but at $5 dollars a pop, I didn’t even have to pretend to pull my wallet out.
I skated past the booths without making eye contact with any of the sellers so as not to make it awkward. If ever caught in conversation with one of the booths, my wallet tends to slip out of my pocket as a courtesy and afterward, I will walk away holding a bag of something that will get tossed in the trash even though it was double the price. I’m a sucker for conversation and sometimes I end up paying for it. But not today. No sir!
“Hey. Step right up,” one of the vendors said as if he were monitoring a fair booth. Instead, he was selling repackaged spices with his own label on the bottle. $8 dollars a piece. I continued on.
I noticed small groups of people dressed as if they were from the olden times. Beardless men wore black slacks, suspenders and a plain-colored, heavy, dress shirt.
“Heritage. Artisanal.”
I presumed they were mennonites since the men wore wide-brimmed, flat top fedoras and the women wore bonnets.
There were pockets of people sprinkled throughout the walkway, handing out literature in hopes to save those poor souls of people who looked like me. They didn’t offer me any religious propaganda, presumably because of my tattoos. I am what the mennonites would consider ungodly.
One of the men extended his arm out to Ash to offer a trifold pamphlet. Ash said politely, “No, thank you.”
Like a child, I kerned my neck to see what he was handing out, eyes wide to notice the cover of a religious brochure. The front page had a picture of a man with long, golden hair, kneeling in front of another man, begging. Or praying. These days, it’s sort of the same thing.
“Jesus is God,” the cover read. Inside, there was an envelope to donate money to the Church, if someone were stupid enough to do so. I couldn’t imagine giving my last $5 dollars to an organization that brings in billions annually, tax-free and gives nothing back.
The young man finally extended his arm to hand me a pamphlet but I also declined.
“I can’t afford it,” I said.
Flowers were delivered for Ash’ birthday. It’s actually tomorrow but her father lives in Maryland, so he mails his gifts. Things must not be going well financially. He usually sends steaks.
I answered the door in my underwear, as I do, and was greeted by a young woman holding a vase of petunias. Instead of doing my usual Sally Field receiving an Oscar impersonation, I thanked the young woman and brought the flowers inside.
As I put the beautiful bouquet of birthday botanicals on the counter, I noticed a card attached to a balloon. The front of the card read Carlson & Co., in an expensive gold-leafed font. At the bottom was an address for the business location in Springfield, Georgia, which is a 30 minute drive to my house.
I didn’t tip the woman since I don’t know who to tip these days. It used to only be barbers and waiters, but now everybody has their hand out looking for an extra buck or two. Target workers. Funeral directors. Public school lunch ladies. I feel like I should’ve left a $20 dollar bill sticking out of my asshole for the doctor who was lucky enough to perform my colonoscopy.
Maybe, I’ll mail her a religious pamphlet or a fairytale eggplant when I can afford it.