The Astoria farmers market smells like September now, and I went this morning without a plan, which for me is basically a spiritual achievement.
I took the N up two stops and walked over. The market sits near 14th Street on Sundays and this week the tomatoes had quietly retreated and been replaced by apples. Piles of them. Honeycrisp, some knobby heirloom variety, a whole crate the color of a Diwali marigold.
There's a cider donut stand now. The Astoria farmers market always does this — one week it's peaches and the next you're standing in a cloud of cinnamon sugar with no memory of how you got in line.
I bought three. I ate two before I got home. I regret nothing.
There's an aunty energy I bring to markets that I inherited straight from my mummy. I inspect everything. I ask too many questions. I hold an apple up to the light like it owes me an explanation. The farmer at the stall started to enjoy it, I think. He gave me a fourth donut for free, which means I've either charmed him or looked genuinely unwell.
Here's what I love about the Astoria farmers market: it forces me to move at the pace of a season instead of the pace of the city. Everywhere else in New York is a to-do list wearing sneakers. This is just people and fruit and a guy playing acoustic guitar slightly out of tune.
I sat on a bench with my cider and watched a toddler have a full meltdown over a squash. Relatable. I too have wept over produce.
Back home I made an apple sabzi thing that doesn't exist in any cuisine and I refuse to explain it. It was good. My roommate was suspicious. Fusion is just confidence, honestly.
The Astoria farmers market is where I remember that I don't always have to be productive to be present. Sometimes you just buy too many apples and let the morning be slow.
Go before the donuts sell out. That's the only advice I have.
Love,