Or is it me?
This morning at the market – the next to last one of the year, the farmers were one foot out already in their mindset. Ms. Bee-Charmer-who-also-sells-pumpkins tells me – why is today’s market dragging so much? Then: come on, don’t you want one of my pumpkins? They’re French, like you. Alright, load my French market basket with yout heavy ball of goodness. Sweet pumpkin soup made from the very French piece of squash, by the not very French Ocean blogger.
I fill out the order form for a Blue Valley Thanksgiving turkey. The farmer asks -- can you stick around for a few minutes? I want to get a warm cup of coffee from l’Etoile.
It’s not just me.
At the tomato stand, a young girl helps her dad. She is protected from the wind. Sort of.
There are shoppers, but not too many. The end of October. Red wagons are loaded down with pumpkins. Are they going to be peeled and seeded and roasted and served as soup? Too big. Little pumpkins taste better. These are doorstep material.
But the sun is there and everything is riper, brighter, better, more photogenic in its warmth.
After the market, I drive briefly out of town just to see if the sun improves what little is out there at this time of the year. It does.
