This week at Farmer's Market in Burlington it poured rain at noon, so much and so fast that the ever-present stinkhole under our table that has vexed my husband Dan since May, filled with water in less than a minute and became an ugly swirling brown moat. I had to fish shopping bags and financial paperwork from it before they succumbed to the rising tide. It rained for the duration of the day.
There's only so much I can take of soul-sucking commerce-ruining weather, but it wasn't windy, it wasn't cold, and there was a lot of cheese cut up and ready for sale. I had envisioned Saturday as a bustling mixture of tourists enjoying the fall foliage and regulars stocking up on ground beef. It wasn't even close.
Why ground beef? We usually sell a lot of meat after a commodity recall, but not this time. I don't understand that, since historically, pre-packaged hamburger health scares have been very good for our business. So we stuck it out in the rain trying to make the trip worthwhile with the odd sale, but it's the end of the season and there isn't much left to sell: sausages, country-style pork ribs, ground meat, and that frozen veal heart no one seems to want. Our tent leaks, by the way. And as I'm writing this, I realize that I haven't brought in the damp tablecloths, and utensils that were used to sample out our cheeses. They are sitting on the floor in the garage, not getting any cleaner.
I haven't attended to them because we had another chicken processing day and barbecue on Sunday. After we got home from market, the unpacking was left so that pork roasts could be brined, vegetables chopped, and the house cleaned well enough for guests.
To turn out a meal was a remarkable feat (if I might say so, myself) in that I still don't have a fully functioning kitchen; it's been over two months now of washing dishes in that dimly-lit closet on the opposite end of the house, where the hot water from the faucet sprays all over the place at full force and then slowly shuts itself off when you need it. Being hosed twice daily is bringing me down.
A wonky wooden island has served as a temporary culinary workspace, but I should have real counters and a working sink by the end of the month. If not, then I'm going to have a psychological breakdown. I don't ask for much, but I haven't been able to cook a thing without severe inconveniences. I shouldn't be rinsing off radishes and tomatoes under the bathroom showerhead. That just ain't right.
Farmer's market season is almost over. As much as I anticipate it starting up every year, I'm equally as eager to see it end. Only three weeks left to go before my Saturdays are my own again. Well, not really mine, but at least I won't have to work outside in the rain.
