I grew up in South Bend, Indiana, where there’s been a farmer’s market since the 1920’s. We loved going there as kids, and rarely missed a Saturday.
Someone was always stationed at the entrance with a litter of puppies or kittens to give away. There’s a restaurant in the middle that served tantalizing stacks of pancakes. We never ate there. The “Office” was staffed by a no-nonsense woman and featured an array of baby pictures, each with a sassy caption. Amish ladies in long dresses and bonnets sold fresh eggs and insanely buttery cinnamon rolls. We ate a lot of those. Hippie people sold incense and flowing dresses. Cute boys worked at the butcher’s counter. A candy stall made the whole place smell like caramel corn. Farmers’ wives and kids sold tons and tons of produce.
This week I was in town and stopped by. No puppies or kittens, heaven help me. Being a Friday, most of the stalls were closed. But there were a few Amish ladies. And cute boys cutting meat. The caramel corn machine was cranking away. And…blueberries and plums galore, grown about 10 miles away in southwestern Michigan.