Farmer's Market finds

a plant table at Chisago City Farmer's Market          © harrington

Yesterday, before we went to the Carrie Newcomer concert, we stopped by the Chisago City Farmer's Market. They had half-a-dozen or so tables set up, mostly with plants but there were some local crafts and food too. My Better Half bought an array of growing things to go into the flower bed we seem to be starting down by the "wet spot" in the backyard, plus some green onions to go into an upcoming meal. I took a few pictures, behaved myself around the baker's booth selling luscious-looking cupcakes (Peace&Sweets had a table) and started to wonder about how hard it would be to grow plants from seeds, no doubt a carryover from my wildflower photo excursion earlier this week combined with an increasing (growing!) desire to do something real and natural. Could such be a new career possibility? Probably not, but it's fun to consider.

The plants bought are native, non-invasives as far as I can tell and weren't treated with neonicotinoids (the master gardener selling them was slightly offended at the question):

• Swamp saxifrage
• Bishop's cap
• Swamp milkweed
• Blue flag iris
• Cowslip (Marsh marigold); and,
• American elderberry

Visiting the Chisago City Farmer's Market is part of an alternative this year to buying a Community Supported Agriculture [CSA] share. We decided to check out several of the local farmer's markets to see what's available and support our local economy in a way that's not limited to one producer. It's also a good way to get acquainted with folks who live in the area but not in what passes for our rural "neighborhood." I did not expect to find a local source for kimchi but the sauerkraut didn't surprise me. Judith Harris nicely captures how it goes at these things.

kimchi and kraut at the Chisago City Farmer's Market  © harrington

End of Market Day

By Judith Harris 

At five, the market is closing.

Burdock roots, parsley, and rutabagas

are poured back into the trucks.

The antique dealer breaks down his tables.

Light dappled, in winter parkas

shoppers hunt for bargains:

a teapot, or costume jewelry,

a grab bag of rubbishy vegetables for stew.

Now twilight, the farmer’s wife

bundled in her tweed coat and pocket apron

counts out her cash from a metal box,

and nods to her grown-up son

back from a tour in Iraq,

as he waits in the station wagon

with the country music turned way up,

his prosthetic leg gunning the engine.