Back from my little errand to the farmers’ market. With carrot and celery leaves reversing out and around. With forty more eggs carefully cradled in a basket. With strawberries stored in plastic bricks in another basket – the pink one, because that is the cute one. Plus tomatoes, peppers, green garlic, young cabbages, zucchini, potatoes (new and old), radishes and I don’t know what more… Ah, apples! A marvel of colors and vitamins. Each and every thing cut or rooted out of farmers’ fields (or gardens) around our little town. Yes, we are favored and should be more grateful for this.
My neighbor gets her plastic box with strawberries while hubby hauls the vegetation from the car into the kitchen. I tell her that we’re about (have to) stop by Lidl (the supermarket chain) to buy breads and meats for the kids (they return to resupply) and avocados for us, bananas for all and… and… and… She asks me if I could buy her three cans of stuffed cabbage and a box of margarine, for her son. Sure do.
Supermarkets, like streamlined food and convenience chains for urban humans, provide certitudes, guarantees, money on returns and what not. Once in a decade, a guy enters a supermarket, reaches for a banana and gets scared by a banana-looking yellow snake. He was fast – the guy, I mean. How that thing had crept through all the filtering and radiations, by plane and truck, is a mystery. A Brazilian kind of spider did the same, in some exotic box. Things happen, once in a solar cycle maybe. When such extremely rare accidents occur, the supermarket is evacuated, sealed and firemen deploy. A little local war breaks out to restore the standards of safety, perception and diligent delivery to the public.
A farmer friend tells me that her hens run happily and don’t eat the poultry feed formula. Not that they’d be picky but rather because she feeds them her own natural ‘formula’ dating back before the industry and plastic bags. This is the farmer that I trust enough to even consume the egg shells instead of buying calcium supplement pills from the health shop.
Another farmer keeps telling me that her strawberries, even if growing late and not so huge, are ecologically grown. Well, she doesn’t use that word (eco) but longer phrases that send the message. Her strawberries taste like a corner of heavens. Oh, and the celery I buy from her is seven times smaller than the one in the supermarket.
Back home, from shopping, I turn busily in this little kitchen, escape joyfully to my greater garden and, when it hits me, run amok to my notebook to save some lines of thought. Artificial clouds of memory take me out of the present. Worrying about the morrow, I find myself sighing for the yester…
When I was a baby, my parents lived as tenants in a decrepit house. The basement there being constantly filled with water. This is why mom insisted to move out before her daughters get sick. When entering school age, my parents moved us at the third floor of a newly built apartment block. Grey and dull, but dry!
Thirteen years later, leaving for the university, then marrying and moving to his first home, then – twelve years later – moving again to our new home. This one.
I wish to think that it is here where my home is. But I’m afraid that this is nothing more than wishful thinking. Can I tell what tomorrow will bring? What would I do when the paradigm shifts again?
But I guess that I’ve missed something. Something really important. My Home! The tent that harbors me for over fifty years. This is my True Home. Always around me. Works even by teleportation, say some.
Green garlic anyone?