Just last week another farmer’s market opened near my
home. Not being a follower, I have yet
to go and enjoy the madness.
Several years ago, I visited a few different farmers markets
and vowed not to set foot near another.
The big hype of these usually outdoor events is supposed to be the
“organic” produce, eggs, and plants.
“Organic” is one of those words that fall into the category
of nebulous terms such as lo-cal, lite, and safe. When describing food as “delicious,” it can
be absolutely horrid to anyone except the one eating it so, delicious is not a
fair word to use. Organic, though,
should mean something, unfortunately it usually doesn’t. There are no official guidelines for labeling
food as organic.
Farmers will label food as organic because they use
“natural” fertilizer, or well water, or feed their chickens natural food. For the record, chickens will eat pretty much
anything – including their own poop – which is technically natural. But, I digress.
The few farmer’s markets I have attended were virtually
identical. For some background, a
farmers market was contrived years ago by people with too much money begging
farmers to sell their goods to them at premium prices. The idea behind these agoras was to provide a
venue for the farmers to sell their wares directly to the public, thereby
cutting out the middle man, allowing for a “fair” profit for the downtrodden
farmers.
A local supermarket sells tomatoes for $3 per basket. A farmer’s market vendor sells those same
tomatoes for $7 per basket. Somehow,
that profit margin seems a bit steep to me as the farmer has little
overhead. Now, they advertise their
tomatoes as organic and raise the price one-dollar. Not being a patsy, I avoid those markets just
to prove to myself that I’m not an imbecile.
Besides, most of the visitors to these produce fairs are
dragging along their homely kids in strollers, a yellow Labrador, and cup of $4
coffee, with a Bluetooth device stuffed in their ears. In all actuality, this is a social event for
them to meet other mothers and compare the physical shortcomings of their
offspring. They stop anywhere with total
disregard to anyone else, to yak amongst themselves and allow their dogs to
provide extra blockage to the already waning sidewalk space.
Male-looking humans with pink sweaters tied around their
necks, carrying lattes, offer a new level of irritation, lisping comments about
the shade of squashes but, not buying a thing.
Folks there sell homemade ham biscuits that I would describe
as embarrassing. More often than not, a
woman wearing tie-dyed tee shirt and some Gypsy-style skirt, accessorized with
frizzy hair and huge round horned-rim glasses is selling plants and organic
honey. Again with the organic
stuff. How can honey be anything but
organic?
That 1960’s throwback is often working with a tall, lanky
guy sporting a bushy beard that could hold a nest of robins. Sounding stoned, he feels compelled to say,
“Did she mention the honey is ‘organic’?”
After a few hours of this circus-like atmosphere, the
farmers head back to poverty as most of their goods go unsold.
And this enthusiasm continues week after week with this same
parade of little farmers trying to squeeze the last buck out of the city
slickers while their kids get older and homelier.
Maybe I’ll take Smokey the cat to one and offer him as my
beautiful child raised on organic food.
