Portland Farmer's Market

In the land of 10,000 Mothers, milk and honey flow without end,

Nobody goes away wanting. You are welcome wherever you've been.

The Land of 10,000 Mothers, by Cosy Sheridan.

Deep in the throws of winter, when the gray sky has become so oppressive I can hardly stop myself from going mad, one of the few glimmers of light that keeps me going is knowing that the first weekend of April is coming. That glorious weekend when the Portland Farmer's Market dusts off its tables, throws open its shutters and welcomes the citizens of Portland back in for another season of "food, glorious food."

Oh, I know. I read the article in the Wall Street Journal. The one debating the merits of farmer's markets and the concept behind being a "locavore." I'm not here to debate them myself. And, yes, I agree that perhaps these questions need to be raised; however, I also believe that some people are contrary just for the sake of being contrary. I scanned the comments and was thrilled to see one fellow write back, "You've missed the whole point of being a locavore. Local food simply tastes better." And isn't that the whole point? Why eat a mealy, pale pink, tasteless tomato that's traveled thousands of miles in the dead of winter when you can wait a few months and eat a bright red, sweet one from the next town over? You may go back for seconds. Seconds for something that tastes incredible and is nourishing no less.

Arriving at the Portland Farmer's Market today, only an hour or so before closing, my daughter and I strolled under the canopy of decades old trees and headed right for the food carts. We were starving. I scanned the options. Fresh biscuits. Crêpes - both savory and sweet. Hot tamales. Grilled sausage sandwiches. Wood-fired bagels. Finally deciding on Thai Yellow Curry from Zuppa, I carried my fragrant bowl of brown rice topped with a beautiful pale yellow broth, bright orange chunks of sweet potatoes, a spoonful of mango chutney and a sprinkle of cilantro over to a table. As I awaited the arrival of my daughter and enjoyed every spoonful of my delicious lunch, I was treated to the bluegrass sounds of the Misty Mamas. Bliss.

One thing you should know about me, dear friend, is that...well...um...okay, here it is, I love to polka. I can sniff out polka music a mile away. I can anticipate the playing of a great polka dancing song. Be warned the innocent person who takes me to an Oktoberfest celebration. Like a horse headed for the barn, there I am making a beeline for the dance floor in anticipation of the Chicken Dance. I can't help it. It's such happy music and who doesn't love the feeling of being twirled around a dance floor in another's arms? And so, there I was, practically having to tie myself down to my chair to avoid embarrassing my "almost" teenage daughter, as the Misty Mamas struck up, Polka on the Banjo. Luckily for her, by the time she was seated, berry crêpe safely in hand, the had moved onto, The Land of 10,000 Mothers.

There we sat, the two of us, silently eating our food, lost in our thoughts, listening to music and gazing around at the people. The ever-present tap dancer on his 16x16 inch wooden dance floor. The elderly gentleman on the scooter offering to draw your portrait. The college-age kid in the pale green linen pants and matching tunic finished off with a knitted gold and maroon scarf around his neck. The mother down from the Heights in her Seven jeans, her fancy sandals and her white slouch bag on her arm. The darling preschooler with the cotton ball puff of milk chocolate colored hair dancing to the music. The teenage girl, daring you to look at her mohawk, styled with long spikes, Statue of Liberty style, running front to back. And of course, the balloon man who was having a tough day at work as his balloons continued to pop prematurely.

We were quickly ushered out of our thoughts and back to the present by the very real fact that the market was closing soon. We rushed around to gather a few of our favorites. Purple artichokes from DeNoble's farm in Tillamook. Some brilliant, red tomatoes. A 1/2 flat of strawberries and matching flat of blueberries. A handful of shitake mushrooms. And, of course, a baker's dozen of bite-sized treats from Two Tarts to sweetly satisfy our soul. Carrying our load back to the car, past the beautifully restored Simon Benson house and the classic architecture of Lincoln Hall, I was struck by the thought, "Maybe food isn't even the top reason for visiting a Farmer's Market. Maybe it's simply the catalyst for so much more. Maybe."

Originally written: August 8, 2009

All original text and photographs copyright: Carrie Minns 2009