Special Report By Author Sibling Matt Cahill
Normally I grow my own tomatoes with varying degrees of success. I did not get any planted this year so have to look for them elsewhere. Since they are in season the farmer’s market seems like a target rich environment. There are two in the nearest little town to me. It’s a rare liberal bastion in NC.
So I brought this up to group of lesbian friends-for a reason I don’t know I have a lot of lesbian friends, except for the obvious sexual attraction to the same gender we share. Probably more likely we go the the same bar like everyone else does cause it’s the only cool bar in town. The lesbians go to ogle Christina the barkeep, who is a crazy beautiful blond with the most perfectly aftermarket boobs ever implanted. She’s also a total sweetheart and yes I go to ogle her as well. She spent good money on them and wants folks to notice.
So the lesbians react to my farmer’s market question in hushed tones and diverted eyes. There is a war on with the farmers and the lesbians are clued in. Pretty sure most of the lesbians are not actual farmers but most have enough land to grow some things.
The town has built a really nice spot for the farmers to display their stuff on Saturdays, and there is a hipster playing guitar poorly and you can pay more than you would at a Whole Foods for a tomato because it’s organic. There are also organic bales of hay. Far as I know hay is what grows in your field when you don’t plant anything else. My lawn is organic.
So the 2nd Farmers Market was relegated to the parking lot of the Home Depot for a while, stuck between the illegal day workers and fix-it dads trying to figure out the best way to cram a dozen two-by-fours into a Prius. They had clearly lost the farmers market battle and had to be embarrassed by it but they circled the wagons and decided to take legal action to get back to the cute spot by the river. They prevailed and now all the women with long grey hair in a ponytail (also a common look for the men vendors) can push oddball veggies at you under a common roof. But clearly the tension is high. A single aggressively handled rutabaga could re-ignite the conflict, in the opinion of this observer.
The kale market is particularly competitive. I imagine because kale is a weed and grows everywhere and tastes like plaster no matter how one prepares it. The cooking shows tell me all about how it can be done but guessing even in the hands of a master chef, really good camera work and lighting, it still tastes like the crap that it is.
So anyway I get my tomatoes and pull the kiddos out of the river and hope I don't have to use my tomatoes to defend myself on the way home before we can make some chili with them. It’s a fun morning.
So I brought this up to group of lesbian friends-for a reason I don’t know I have a lot of lesbian friends, except for the obvious sexual attraction to the same gender we share. Probably more likely we go the the same bar like everyone else does cause it’s the only cool bar in town. The lesbians go to ogle Christina the barkeep, who is a crazy beautiful blond with the most perfectly aftermarket boobs ever implanted. She’s also a total sweetheart and yes I go to ogle her as well. She spent good money on them and wants folks to notice.
So the lesbians react to my farmer’s market question in hushed tones and diverted eyes. There is a war on with the farmers and the lesbians are clued in. Pretty sure most of the lesbians are not actual farmers but most have enough land to grow some things.
The town has built a really nice spot for the farmers to display their stuff on Saturdays, and there is a hipster playing guitar poorly and you can pay more than you would at a Whole Foods for a tomato because it’s organic. There are also organic bales of hay. Far as I know hay is what grows in your field when you don’t plant anything else. My lawn is organic.
So the 2nd Farmers Market was relegated to the parking lot of the Home Depot for a while, stuck between the illegal day workers and fix-it dads trying to figure out the best way to cram a dozen two-by-fours into a Prius. They had clearly lost the farmers market battle and had to be embarrassed by it but they circled the wagons and decided to take legal action to get back to the cute spot by the river. They prevailed and now all the women with long grey hair in a ponytail (also a common look for the men vendors) can push oddball veggies at you under a common roof. But clearly the tension is high. A single aggressively handled rutabaga could re-ignite the conflict, in the opinion of this observer.
The kale market is particularly competitive. I imagine because kale is a weed and grows everywhere and tastes like plaster no matter how one prepares it. The cooking shows tell me all about how it can be done but guessing even in the hands of a master chef, really good camera work and lighting, it still tastes like the crap that it is.
So anyway I get my tomatoes and pull the kiddos out of the river and hope I don't have to use my tomatoes to defend myself on the way home before we can make some chili with them. It’s a fun morning.
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