Enough Is Enough

I was going to write—again!—about you-know-who and the question that is haunting me: did we create him?

But I think we are all so tired, so very tired, of this topic, which has squeezed more important issues (like decisions being made behind the scenes in Washington that will affect us all) off the various forms of radar.

Some of you may remember, as I do, the extreme fatigue we felt when our beloved toddler threw another tantrum, often in public, falling to the floor, kicking and screaming.

So—enough is enough. Even our indignation feels too familiar, after a while.

Local, organic produce is of the blessings of our age—which at times seems cursed.

Instead—the Farmers’ Market here in Santa Fe I attend faithfully early every Saturday morning, meeting a group of three beloved friends who feed me enough, emotionally, to keep me going all day, in addition to the excellent eggroll Seth always buys for me—my treat for the week.

Thank you Richard, Doug and Seth for being so faithful to our blessed ritual!

I’m posting photos of the farm stands I cruised before eight A.M., when the heat had not yet risen to a crescendo and the produce was shiny and bright.

All familiar—cucumbers, radishes, carrots—except for the garlic “scapes”—I think that’s what they are called—long green onion-like veggies that pack a powerful punch.

I never leave without a bunch of Ann’s flowers. Flowers are particularly hard to grow here, in our dense, hard soil, now-withering heat (it didn’t use to be this hot) and lack of water, in addition to the challenges of our short growing season.

And today, I also bought one of the glorious dried-flower wreaths made by my friend Pilar.

All the men, women and children who cultivate these growing things, distil the tinctures, make the cider, hand out samples of homemade jams and bread—they are all up long before dawn to make the sometimes many hours drive to Santa Fe from their farms out in the state.

And I nearly forgot the lamb, beef, egg and chicken vendors.

All the hard work, which I never knew how to do, to put the freshest organic produce on my table, and on the tables of many other people.

One of the blessings of our age—which at times seems cursed.