A make-shift cash register at my first farmers’ market, in downtown St. Paul, which has been in operation since the 1850s. I remember bleary Saturday mornings when Dad would stick me in the car and take me to the market half-willingly. He needed an extra hand to carry the goods, and I knew there was a fresh chocolate croissant in it for me from the bread-maker.
Last night I met one of the men who started the Union Square Greenmarket. I told him it was an honor to shake his hand.
(I didn’t tell him that I think it’s weird New Yorkers call them “greenmarkets.” It seems unnecessarily fussy. A “farmers’ market” is more descriptive, and offers respect where it’s due.)