An exceptionally nice farmers market is held every Saturday in our quaint little downtown. One block is entirely cordoned off and filled with stands bursting with all things edible and delectable. It's a bit expensive, even by our perfect-little-town upscale standards, but I love to shop there. It offers the most tantalizing, fresh, and often organic items. In addition to exceptional produce, you can find seafood pulled the previous day, local cheese, California olive oil, grass-fed meat, bakery items, rotisserie chicken, fresh flowers, the list goes on and on.
I'm very particular shopping there, I want the nicest heirloom tomatoes, the Thai basil, not the Italian. The Ahi tuna, not the Tombo, the free-stone peaches not the cling. I'm a very exacting customer with high expectations.
This morning I was standing in line waiting to pay for my perfect white peaches.
Free stone of course.
The gentleman in front of me did not have a shopping bag, nor did he have a bag of produce items individually selected for their exquisite perfection. I overhead him quietly asking the cashier if he would mind giving him any of the produce that they planned to discard. The cashier looked startled. Then he got a bag and slowly started to put tomatoes in it from the stand. "No, no," the man insisted. "I only want the ones you were planning to throw away." So the cashier reached under the table and handed the man a box of the discards, accepting his warm thanks.
I paid for my peaches this morning, but the dose of reality was free.
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