To market, to market.
Late in the morning (after I have had a hot cup of tea and a slice of toast spread with my homemade pork rillettes) I swing by to pick up C. before we head down to Ballard, circling around before finally finding a (probably illegal) parking spot a mere block or two from our intended destination: Volterra. We brunch on scrambled eggs (mine have wild mushrooms and a touch of white truffle oil) and hash browns and buttered toast made from a curiously seedy bread that reminds me of bits of loofah but nevertheless goes down quite well with generous spoonfuls of strawberry jam. There is hot coffee and the pleasure of eavesdropping on other people's conversations, and then it is time to head off to the farmer's market down the street.
As always, we take a lap around the market (arranged in a double row down one long block, with aisles on either side) and take stock of all the things available. There are homemade pies, jars of jam, freezers full of fish (a man proffers tastes of smoked salmon to all who pass). I regret eating breakfast when I see the crêpe stand and the hot-dog cart. Next time, perhaps. We eye the crates of apples and pears, the bright bouquets of flowers, try a taste of chocolate covered butter toffee. Definitely coming back for some of that. I think about what I need for the week ahead: some fruit, perhaps, and a jug of cider. And that chocolate-covered toffee.
On the second lap around I buy trofie pasta, which comes frozen in plastic boxes; I plan to keep it on hand for impromptu dinners. I get some cider, both the regular kind and the alcoholic hard cider, then a bundle of baby bok choy, two apples and several plums. I grab some dark-chocolate-covered toffee and the final splurge, a bright bouquet of flowers. I have to hand the flowers off to C. so I can arrange my purchases in a way that won't lead to me dropping them all over the street on the way back to the car. It is difficult. I wish cider didn't come in such heavy glass bottles. Or that my bouquet of flowers would stop dripping water everywhere. But I have my chocolate-covered toffee as a consolation.