Summertime, and the livin’ is easy. By which I mean the availability of fresh fruits and vegetables. Though modern agriculture and transportation mean we can have, like, bananas in winter and whatnot, it still seems like the produce is better in the summer.
(To be fair, 95% of what I eat comes out of a box or a can. Your mileage may vary when it comes to taste.)
Corn on the cob. Watermelon. Peaches. Plums. Cucumbers. Tomatoes. The only thing missing is the roll of paper towels. (I speak from experience.)
Even better for us city dwellers, farmers markets are a thing now. You can get access to stuff that was in the ground earlier today. (Ish.) When I was a kid, I feel like the closest thing we had to a farmers market was that dude on the side of the road with a truck bed full of watermelons. I didn’t trust that guy for the same reason I didn’t trust the woman handing out apples at Christmas? Obviously everything would be full of razorblades. #Milwaukee
But now? Now you can walk a few blocks from your office at cabinet-agency-that-shall-not-be-named and shop to your heart’s content. Not just for produce, but also for ice cream and baked goods and pickles and all sorts of things. As I did, just the other day.
Correction: As I tried to do. At 2:52 on a recent afternoon. When I was told that they weren’t open for another eight minutes.
See, the market runs from 3 to 7 pm. And it’s actually Freshfarm Markets, a whole network of markets, all over the DC area, with different locations on different days. So perhaps there’s some Farmers Market Code of Ethics that forbids vendors from opening early.
Despite the fact that the produce is all laid out long before 3.
Despite the fact that there are no signs, cones, police tapes, or other barriers to the market area or individual stalls.
Despite the fact that MOTHER LOVING CAPITALISM would advise you to take my money when I try to give it to you.
However, I’m no expert at commerce or labor laws, so I just walked away and started composing this blog post. I’m confident that eight minutes of my time* is more expensive than hers**, and IT’S THE PRINCIPLE OF THE THING.
What amuses me even more, though, is the reading comprehension fail that followed my Twitter complaint:
** $1.48, according to the Bureau of Labor Statstics’ median pay for bakers in 2012. Backing up my rants with robust data is just the sort of extra service I like to provide for you people.