Yesterday was the first time I had a chance to visit a very small farmer's market one town over. I'm from New Jersey, the Garden State. If the most of Jersey you have ever seen is the area around Newark Airport, you might be confused as to the accuracy of our nickname. In reality, most of the state is green and lush.
And if there was ever any doubt that we grow good produce, yesterday's adventure dispelled that notion.
Like an artist's palette, my choices lay spread out before me. Reds, greens, purple, white and yellow. The scent of freshly turned earth. Despite the heat and the roar of traffic just a few yards away, it was an inspiring site. It's a deeply satisying experience to brouse the stands smelling each tomato, tasting each herb. It touches something primal in me, as though I am the ancient gatherer, hunting for the choicest plants to feed my family. It is so much more personal than the cold sterility of the supermarket where every fruit and vegetable shines with a layer of wax and the tomatoes are all perfect red bland spheres.
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