I Suffer From Farmer’s Market Remorse.

19 Dec

This Saturday, Jamie, Jack and I popped over to the Mount Kisco Farmer’s Market to check out the re-opened digs and see what new vendors had joined the cast. We were pleased to see a near-full gymnasium at the Boys & Girls Club, and started our walk around to see what looked good.

But there was a problem. A problem that persists at every Farmer’s Market outing I make. I call it Farmer’s Market Remorse. Basically, I guilt my way into purchasing things I absolutely don’t need or want, purely because I partook in the vendor’s free sampling, and I don’t want to offend. So there I was, in front of the Jam Guy. He was really laying it on thick. Not only did he lure us over to taste his jams and jellies, but he was smooth. He flirted a little. He teased the hubby that I clearly was the decision maker in the family. And he encouraged us to sample one of every 42 flavors he had on hand. Forget the facts that, a) I rarely eat jam/jelly, b) hubby NEVER eats jam/jelly, c) we have a pantry full of jams and jellies that have been gifted to us over the last few years (do those things have a shelf life?) Facts notwithstanding, there I stood, guilted into the decision of buying one jam for $12 or 2 for $20. I mean really, like the guy said, you can never have too many jams. And you can cook with them!! (Sure, I’ll get right on that.)

Moving on, and we’re wooed by the couple who are selling hot sauces. The wife was handing out samples of hush puppies, which if you don’t know are basically fried balls of crack. So of course, we obliged, and as we stood nodding our heads in agreement at how tasty these were, she started in on her spiel about how easy it is to cook with this stuff and I can use it as breading on fish or chicken and fry it up in a little oil. I was hooked. Forget the fact that I’ve never fried anything in my life. She said it was easy, so why not. I hand over my $8 and she hands me a small box of hush puppy-like breading in a chinese takeout container. Hmm. Buyer’s remorse begins as soon as I place the container in the stroller basket.

Next we passed the rickety old table topped with different kinds of salad greens, and a big bowl of what looked like chopped cabbage salad. At this point Hubby was full and just strolled on by without so much as a glance in their direction. Me, however, I made eye contact with the hipster-turned-farmer boy who was working a total 1930’s post-Depression fashion look. (Love the slightly dirty, I-work-on-a-farm newsboy cap! Chic!) He saw right through my disinterest in his salads and lured me over by asking if my son liked veggies. Oh boy. You can’t ignore a farmer who wants to talk to you about your kid’s nutrition. That would crown me crappy mom of the year. Sigh. Here we go. $9 later and I’m the proud owner of a big plastic container of shredded cabbage, for which I have no idea what I will do with. Fish tacos, anyone?

We walked out of the farmer’s market $55 poorer, and with the most random selection of goods, none of which we really wanted. (Except for the sausage and fresh pasta, that was going to be dinner later). Of course I’ll be back next week, if only to practice building a thicker skin against the lure of the free tastings. Nothing’s free, my friends.

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