"Let's remember to celebrate the true reason for the holiday, this Fourth of July..." R. said, mock-academically, as we strolled up toward the market on Saturday.
"What is that again?"
"The signing of the Declaration of Independence," he instructed. And which Maira Kalman recently reminded us that Thomas Jefferson wrote when he was only 33 years old — which, being the age of yours truly, seems particularly young for supremely great accomplishments.
"Ah, yes..." I allowed. Though surely July 4, distilled down, is more plainly about freedom, and independence, and the wide-openness of America and all she makes possible.
When we arrived at the market it was missing several hundred people, who presumably were at that moment filling coolers for road trips or already sunning themselves on various beaches; which doubled all sentiments of freedom and wide-openness being celebration-worthy themes.
We'd also managed to arrive at the holiday with no plans, possibly because we're leaving for a mini vacation on Monday, which required planning enough, and possibly because our good friends T. and A. were to have a baby at any moment — a July 4 due date — and we were prepared to get the call, run the three blocks to their apartment, and rush to the hospital at any moment.
At that moment, our plan-free weekend had led us as far as the market and the fish line, which for the first time wasn't — literally, I'm afraid — fifty people long. In fact, there was just one woman, finishing up her business, and so we discovered that the fish people, when one finally has the chance to speak with them, are lovely and very helpful. R. ordered six gleaming mackerel fillets and two dozen clams, and still staring at the icy boughs of fish it occurred to us to ask T. and A. to lunch. And because that baby had no intention of budging, they accepted.
We left with cherries, both and sweet and bing — which later, served over ice, we'd all agree tasted exactly like cherry pie filling. Also into my cloth bag went a tender head of red lettuce, golden beets, a loaf of semolina to eat with the mackerel and a room temperature frittata with the beet greens and a roasted globe zucchini, a bundle broccoli rabe, and the last three baby artichokes on a table — the first I'd seen of them at the market.
We walked home by a less direct route, enjoying the sun after so many wet mornings, and found a neighbor with a sign spilling from his window, also acknowledging the true reason for the holiday.
After admiring it for a moment we walked on, taking stock of the market. There are still beans — shelling peas, snap peas, string beans — plus blueberries, strawberries, raspberries and tomatoes, though not yet the onslaught. Lots of cucumbers, zucchini, onions, radishes...
"There's no eggplant yet!" I told R., remembering the banana-shaped, bright-purple ones from last summer.
"And no corn yet, either..." he added.
And still no baby.
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