Rain is forecast for Saturday’s Farmers Market. Rain and a flash flood warning. There’s nothing to fear.
When a concerned bystander tells me it’s raining and that I should be careful with myself and my cameras, I respond in a way that seems to show little concern for either.
“I was born wet,” I offer as a brief explanation for my attitude. I say it in a way intended to elicit a smile, perhaps a brief laugh, while acknowledging their concern.
I follow it with, “Of course, I was born wet, naked, and angry. Pick two,” often holding up two fingers in the 1968 peace-sign configuration as a hidden message to relax.
I’m fine getting wet. I’ve been there from the beginning. Since that birth experience, I’ve learned to always wear clothes and not let anger control me.
Saturday will also mark one of the market’s final three days. Soon the rain will turn to snow. I’ll be bundled in multiple layers of natural-fiber clothing, and the anger at the market’s closing will begin to give way to gleeful anticipation of next spring.
Until then, there is the freezer.
On Saturday, I’ll stock up on the foods I can count on to carry me through those months when the smell and feel of farm-fresh corn, beans, and tomatoes are just memories, and their grocery-store versions are tasteless, unappetizing wannabes.
My freezer will yield market bratwurst, sausage, pork chops, hot dogs, and bacon from local farms, giving me something from the market long after the vegetables are gone.
I’ll walk through the market in the rain, unconcerned that I’ll get wet. Done that before.
I’ll step across the anger threshold and into thoughts of bratwurst on the grill for the Super Bowl; pork chops with rice, black-eyed peas, and stewed tomatoes on New Year’s Day; and a cup of dark roast coffee with a Sunday omelet rolled over bacon pulled from the freezer.
I only wish I had a larger freezer.
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