Market
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"Why do you like farmer's markets?" Alex asked.
Surprised by questioning such an apparent truth, I stumbled for a few moments as we navigated the dense crowds at the Union Square Farmer's Marker.
"It reminds me of places outside of New York. I grew up going to them with my parents," I continued. "Now that I live in New York, its grounding." Although our conversation stopped shortly thereafter that Saturday, I continued to contemplate my attraction to farmer's markets.
The next morning, I awoke early to a gray spring morning. Walking through the rain, I grabbed some coffee and then headed towards the farmer's market on 77th and Columbus. The rain fended off the strollers and golden retrievers and gave everything a green hue. Moving slowly down the row of vendors, I took my time hunting for the week's groceries.
Grass fed, yuppie bought.
The next morning, I awoke early to a gray spring morning. Walking through the rain, I grabbed some coffee and then headed towards the farmer's market on 77th and Columbus. The rain fended off the strollers and golden retrievers and gave everything a green hue. Moving slowly down the row of vendors, I took my time hunting for the week's groceries.
Grass fed, yuppie bought.
All of these photos were taken with Sigma's 50mm f1.4 lens. It beats Canon hands down.
Greens and purples.
Browns and Tans.
Wet, gray and orange.
Exchange.
Oyster Mushrooms.
Oyster Mushrooms.
Eggs and Spuds.
Everything got wet.
Apples.
Lugging my groceries in an assortment of plastic and paper bags, I listened to the sound of loose change sloshing around in my pocket. As I counted the blocks down in my head, I regretted shopping on an empty stomach. With a snap, one of the plastic bags broke, spilling apples on Columbus Ave. Right there, I succeeded in answering Alex's question to Stuff White People Like, Article 5. I will be back next week.
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