This week Baby A and I went to the farmer’s market in Santa Monica. It was his second, but the first time that he was in the Baby Bjorn carrier. This give him a front row seat to all the action: the farmers, the fruit, the flowers and the vegetables. He loved it, sampling nectarines, berries, basil and oranges. He even picked out his own tomato, which he carried and chewed on as we shopped.
I have always enjoyed the market. I love the way it smells. I love talking to the farmers about how they grow their food and why they do so. I love the food when I get home. It tastes better than anything I ever buy at the grocery store and, as a result, I eat more fruits and vegetables. It has always been a time investment in my health. Now, that Baby A is enjoying it too; it feeds my body and my soul.
Note: The title of this post may seem a bit weird. It comes from M. who asks each time I return from the farmer’s market if I bought a farmer.
A few days ago, Phoenix had the luxury of rain. It isn’t quite monsoon season here, but lightening lit up the sky and water fell from it. When it first began, there was just enough water for everything to soak it up. The only evidence that it has rained was the smell—a wet, earthy one.
I remember it from childhood. I also remember how much I didn’t like it. But now that I’m older, there is something intoxicating about it. Maybe because it symbolizes nature being replenished or the air being washed of pollution. Whatever it is, I miss it. Because since the rain is gone, so is its scent.
For the last three evenings, I’ve been drinking the same bottle of wine. Tonight I’ll finish it. Each night the 2006 Clos du Bois Pinot Noir tastes better. The air brought out its favors—blackberry and a hint of vanilla. I enjoy the wine; I savor the wine. Smell its bouquet. Taste the red elixir on my tongue. In return, each sip reminds me to slow down and pay attention. Breathe.
My glass of wine each evening started as a healthful way to wind down. Red wine contains the antioxidant Reservatrol that has been shown in scientific studies to help you stay thin, stop aging, block food-borne bacteria, and protect your heart, breasts and liver against disease. But it has become something much more poignant in a life that is full of taking care of family and working. And it just struck me—it’s my time.
Grass. Dark green grass. As a kid, I was repelled by it—thousands of tiny blades that made my legs itch. Today I was drawn to it. The neat lush squares of grass lying at the bottom of small waterfalls in Scottsdale’s Canal District were beckoning me.
Baby boy and I sat on the grass, felt it between our fingers and our toes, and inhaled its scent. I forgot how fresh it smells, how smooth each blade feels and how it infuses the air with moisture. Among the concrete and the arid desert, we were sitting on a small patch of another world. This perfect rectangle of lush grass transported us to a place of wonder and peace, where only the two of us existed.
As we walked back to the car, I felt fresh and renewed. Thanks to a little patch of grass.