Farmer's Market

The air was crisp and chilled this morning as I walked down to the Farmer's Market, the kind of chill that causes a tingle as one takes the first breath. The leaves have started their annual changing of the colors, and Third Street is a study in yellows and burnt reds. The market is slowly waking up as I arrive at opening time to unlock the NSA doors and put out the open signs. Crates and cartons being unloaded from the backs of farm trucks, the Red Finn coffee stall selling its first cups of Idaho Eye-Opener blend to still-sleepy stallholders. I sip my morning americano, cradling its warmth in my hands and breathing its fragrant steam. I wander among the stalls, following the scent of bread and spices to the Wheatberries stall, which displays large artisan breads, bagels, and pastries. This stall is surrounded by a constant crowd of shoppers, eager to select Sabbath breads for guests the next day, or to pick a morning pastry to go with their coffee. Bagel in bag, I head off for the produce stall. Vine-ripened tomatoes will become quick sandwiches for my husband this week. A few apples, a pear, and then the gift of a honeydew melon. It's rough, lined texture is intriguing, and I look forward to tasting the juicy-sweet fruit inside. Shopping finished, I head home to the aroma of soup and baking bread. A stack of new books awaits me, and I curl up on the couch with a bowl of soup and a slice of fresh-baked bread.