kinds of mania

when at the market remember how fleeting your time will be. especially in the mountains where growing things have merely a moment, and not an age as in the wetter places.
when at the market buy peaches, by the boxful. sometimes you can get 'seconds' which are ugly but lovable. toss them with ginger (ground and fresh) the smallest half of a scotch bonnet pepper, lemon, cinnamon and vanilla and enrobe them in a buttery cloak of dough: call it a pie.

and don't forget that sometimes there's a woman at the market who can't decide if she's a farmer, an herbalist or a potter. and so sells clutches of tiny carrots, fierce knobs of garlic and great armfuls of herbs tucked into pottery she's made during the week. sometimes this woman will sell very small vessels. neither cup nor vase. too small for drinking, too big for gulping. get some of these. they will find their purpose. probably in your kitchen.

don't feel you are too good for the melon-monger either. if he tries to sell you a soft, shy honeydew looking melon with little drags of green brush marks all over its cheeks, let him put it on the wobbling scale and charge you an arm an a leg for it. pay an arm and a leg for it because it is called a snow leopard (!!!) melon and eat a slice of it no matter what you think because you are eating a snow leopard melon slice.

spread your herbs out on the kitchen counter. the ones you bought at the market. also the ones from your parents farmyard. swoon over the herbs, smell your hands, chew the stems and decide it is important to make salsa verde at once.

when you are done look around your kitchen. inspect your crisper and cabinets. eye your empty market bags, look around the kitchen swiftly, grab your keys, dive into the car and carry on. never resting, tirelessly diving into the markets racing against the tipping sun until the frost closes its teeth on the year.