This is the first summer I’ve been in the city pretty much full time for at least five years. I’ve been leading a pretty peripatetic life.
It’s the first time I’ve had the space to create little routines and rituals here. And one of the ones I’m really coming to appreciate is the Farmers’ Market at the Brickworks on Saturday mornings.
Wandering around requires a certain kind of emotional, foodie yoga. You get the requisite coffee from the hand-crafted, hand-boiled, hand-roasted coffee guys.
Everything for sale has a story — the gay cheese guy, the bread guy with the Red Fife wheat that came to Ontario in a hat, the olive oil and goat cheese woman, the empanada lady. Stories of water, rains and floods, too much or not enough. “Eat those cherries quickly, they got wet!”
Now, beets, and ramps, and cherries and raspberries, and occasionally, a cherry landing in a frenzy among the raspberries.
The philosophical mad mexican people, with the best chips and guac ever.
Flowers, white and colourful.
A fiesta of mindfulness for an hour on Saturday morning.