To Market: Grand Army Plaza, Tello Eggs and Watermelons

"Best day of the year so far!" I overheard the mailman remark to neighbors earlier. And he's a man who should know.

Walking in shade to the market this morning, the air felt like early June — the very tip of summer, when the mornings still hold a luscious coolness, like deep water. It made me think of the first days of summer vacation during my elementary school years, and my sisters and me begging our mother to allow us to go swimming. Our father would have prepped our little above-ground pool by then — the filter humming in the evenings, the bottom fastidiously vacuumed, its chlorine levels checked twice daily — but we weren't allowed in until the thermometer climbed to 80. Occasionally she'd relent at 79 degrees, and when we finally climbed out, we'd stand facing the sun in our deck-warmed towels, teeth chattering.































I arrived at the market by 9 a.m., and still it felt full. At the Maxwell Farms stand — which in addition to selling cranberry and lima beans, okra, peppers, white and glossy black eggplant, kohlrabi, onions, lovage, basil, sorrel, cabbages, tomatoes, and more, had a table filled with miniatures: finger-length purple eggplants, artichokes that could hide in a palm, chlorophyll-colored tiny chili peppers and watermelons R. would later call "single-serving size" — the line zigzagged out of the tent.

We have a Sunday brunch planned, and with French toast in mind I bought fresh milk from Milk Thistle and fresh eggs from Tello's Green Farm, where a quote ("Farming makes me feel free!") on the official Greenmarket sign posted about its owner, a Columbian immigrant who used to farm in Columbia with his father, admittedly made me tear up.

I bought Thai basil and orange cherry tomatoes for a frittata, and then got on the fish line — always the worst line — for a few fillets of mackerel I thought R. and I could have for dinner tonight with the teeny eggplants. Standing there, I took in a stand brimming with apricots, peaches, and three varieties of plums and was reminded of R., in early March, losing his patience for "seasonal" farmers' market fruit: "I can't eat any more apples!" Which had made me relent and come home from the grocery store with some near-black plums flown up from Chile.

Finally at the front of the fish line, and feeling suddenly reminded of the fleetingness of the summer bounty around me, it was with regret that I handed over the last folded dollars from my skirt pocket.