Praise then darkness, and creation unfinished

cattitude and I went to the farmers market this morning. I had hoped to get ginger cheese: last week the vendor told me she had none left, and promised to keep some for me this week. As I walked up to her table today, she said she was sorry, but they didn't have any ginger cheese, because they're not making it right now. I commented that she had a good memory, and then we talked a bit more about the cheese. I am probably out of luck, since they're not coming to the Somerville, Arlington, or Cambridge summer farmers markets this year; she said they don't do enough business in/close to Boston.

So we bought apples and pasta and beets, and went upstairs to the Boston Smoked Fish Company so I could get my free fish (for having made ten purchases). I said hello, and that I had free fish coming. The seller asked what I wanted, and then gave me a container of smoked salmon pate. I thanked her, put it away, and asked if she needed my phone number. No, she'd recognized me too.

The combination of those had a "Somerville is a small city" feeling; I know I'm somewhat recognizable, but "that's the woman who wanted ginger Adelisca" is a bit different from "we owe this woman free fish, and I can find her in the database without asking for her phone number." When I talked about this with Cattitude, I thought of another thing that might be relevant here: we're at the farmers market almost every Saturday, because we like walking to a farmers market on Saturday morning, as we did in Inwood. (Wednesday afternoons are nice too, but the combination of Saturday morning and walking distance feels very right.)