bounty.

I have been waiting--rather impatiently, I'll admit--for the start of the farmers' market here in my dear Grand Rapids. I've been reading food blogs written by folks on the west and east coasts, and as they rave about the markets and their rhubarb and strawberries and ramps, I have been, frankly, filled with jealousy and a great deal of impatience.

Thankfully, the first of May finally arrived, and with it, the spring opening of my local farmer's market!

I was overjoyed.

I love farmers' markets. I love the fresh and beautiful produce and plants and eggs and cheese and baked goods and jam. I love the bustle of people. I love being out on a Saturday morning when the air is crisp and the sun bright. I love the farmers: the lovely old man who delights in the brightly colored stems of chard just as I do, the folks with the pretty display of baskets who will employ one of my dearest friends this summer, the couple with the interesting selection of jams--and the husband's helpful suggestion to pour his favorite of them on ice cream for a summer treat, the people with the plethora of wonderful whole grain flours...

It's early yet, so there wasn't an enormous array of produce, mostly herbs and potted plants and eggs and such, but I didn't mind. I just wanted to be there. I wanted to absorb that spirit of springtime, to revel in the joy of the shifting of seasons manifest in new varieties of produce from week to week, forcing us to move with the earth, encouraging us to live and eat accordingly, breaking up monotony with new life and delightful change.

I came home with spirits high and a bag filled with the bounty of early springtime.