the food, the city

behind the wheel and i can’t get the replacements out of my head, so i plug them in and turn them up.  zipping around town i can’t help but go faster and faster, pop one ankle out the window and one arm too, silly little smile with my shades on.  i’m on a tomato run. i hit the island.  closed. what?  hit the farmers market.  mall-ish.  no romas, only early girls.  what?  return to the island.  bite into a roma. it is without flavor.  what?  go to the local market.  peaches.  fat ripe velvety peaches from our neighbor to the north. washington maryhill peaches that are begging to be chopped into preserves, grilled with cinnamon and lavender for late summer dessert, peeled and sliced into ball jars.  hell with the tomatoes.  they’ll be here soon enough.  fill up a box of thirty pounds or so.  grab my empty bottle that was once full of the sweetest thickest lusciousness you’ll ever let touch your tongue and give it to the man to refill. balsamic vinegar, aged for 12 years.  used sparingly because it’s not full of the preservatives like most of the stuff at the stores.  ask the other man to hand me one of the ham and brie ficelles.  every time i eat one it reminds me of my trip to paris.  then i dash off, zipping between cars and finding my way into the swedish superstore but smartly discovering the shortcut into the food storage area.  ten more glass storage containers for the herbs, the grains, and dried fruits and nuts.  i think about the possibility of sunflower seeds, of apple rings and hungarian paprika.  but i’m off again, as i realize the time is rapidly ending for my little runaway excursion.  no time to think, i’ve got eggs to collect and a dog to walk and silly blog posts to write.  it’s seventy two degrees and i’ve got my pigtails and my sundress and there’s a little slice of saturday for you…

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