Farmer’s Market

The air is thick with fiddles, artisanal soap, and the faint whiff of kettle corn. Booths stretch before you in dazzling array: tie-dye scarves, organic honey, small-batch dog biscuits shaped like Jefferson’s face.

A vendor waves you over with a tray. 

“$14 vegan scone,” she says, her tone both invitation and challenge. You nod politely and back away.

Another booth is more discreet. A man in a wide-brimmed hat leans across his folding table and whispers, “Locally sourced quartz?” 

He lifts a rock with both hands as though it were radioactive, its price tag more terrifying than the mineral itself.

You press forward, but the chaos only deepens. A dog wearing a bandana yanks its owner toward the kombucha stand. A group of children performs an unsolicited violin recital.

Then, from somewhere near the heirloom tomatoes, an old man growls: “The OTHER farmer’s market is better!” His words ripple through the crowd like a curse. Vendors glare. Shoppers mutter. Allegiances form instantly, silently.

The fiddles screech louder. The soap smells sharper. And you must decide how much your sanity — and your wallet — can endure.

Do you:

• Spend $84 on mushrooms and goat cheese 
• Argue about the price of kale