November at the Market
November at the market is cold and gray,
much like November in any other setting. Dead leaves crunch underfoot
and the harvest is playing its coda; another month and only the produce
of cold frames and greenhouses will remain. The throngs of July have dwindled
to bands of hardy stragglers, serious growers and cooks who know how to
make the best of a difficult season and whose temperaments incline them
to ignoring the hardships of weather. The early morning air is barely
above freezing and the sky is bleak, the sun a pale smudge behind the
deeper smudges of clouds. It is a good day to build a fire in the fireplace
and go back to bed, but a few dozen farmers and craftspeople and a few
hundred customers have come to brave the cold and do some business. Strong
coffee helps.
The vendors shiver, huddled behind their
folding tables, counting change with stiff and frozen fingers. Most have
been out since first light, which this time of year comes soon after six-thirty.
The transplants from northern climes who keep the market going as the
season progresses are no better able to count their change than the natives,
but they bear the cold more easily. A few wrap themselves in handknit
hats and scarves and chatter with customers to keep their teeth from doing
the same. A Connecticut native charges a customer six dollars and ten
cents for a dozen eggs and two pork chops, then reconsiders: six dollars
will do, no need to count out so many coins for so little return. Put
the gloves back on, keep the fingers warm for more important transactions
later.
Northern accents are commoner these days
across the tables, too, but it is less the Southern-born than the money-bred
whose numbers fall with the temperature. One can still make an excellent
living from what the market provides: broccoli, beets, carrots, kale,
collards, three kinds of Western and Chinese cabbages and a wreath of
lettuces, even a few bell peppers hanging on. Three varieties of goat
cheese, breads, free-range chicken, eggs, pork, beef. A thoughtful and
talented cook would need little else. But these are not the easy luxuries
of spring and summer, no strawberries and tomatoes and peaches to be eaten
out of hand. These are more elusive luxuries, demanding effort from the
consumer and appreciation of stronger flavors. The fair-weather shoppers
stay home and subsist in blissful ignorance on California’s leftovers
until spring releases them from their cocoons. November offers little
of its own accord; those who appreciate it will make luxuries out of the
everyday and find comfort where they can.
— November 2000
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