Ode to The Farmer’s Market

We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of a dear friend. The Boulder Farmer's Market took its last breath on the first of the month and will not resurface until next April. For those of us who dutifully attended each and every Saturday morning gathering, it will be a great loss of unmentionable magnitude. A gap in the day that serves as a constant reminder of our past jollies by the creek—a happy crowd, a multitude of restaurants offering up their local fare, the makings of a new favorite recipe, the free samples…Oh, the free samples! A cornucopia of granolas, fresh-pressed apple juices, an abundance of olive oils dips with plenty of bread to try them all, and cheese for every type. Indeed, the end of the Farmer's Market signals the beginning of the cold, dreary days ahead. Winter months that won't be brightened by fresh, organic produce; instead, Chilean imports will have to suffice—and I don't quite know how I feel about jet-lagged fruit. Our last ditch effort at homegrown joy exists in our miniature herb gardens on the window ledge over the kitchen sink. So now we must sit and wait out the next five and a half months of agony, sighing as we mindlessly test grocery store cucumbers for ripeness and trying to enjoy our overly seasoned, herbed dinners, with a small glimmer of hope twinkling in the back of our mind. For the Market will return, triumphant in the spring and we will realize that absence does in fact, make the heart grow fonder.