The Truth is in the Road

What I love about the summer is its unbelievable, never-ending generosity. Everything – sun, daylight, life – is such so plentiful during this season. Even Southern California, which is used to having fresh fruit and veggies throughout the year, explodes with some unfathomable abundance during these magical months. This stunning bounty invariably makes me feel as if I am visiting some treasured friends or family , whom I haven’t seen for a while, and the lady of the house, wealthy, hospitable and experienced, is feeding me like her most beloved child. Every week at the farmer’s market I buy more tomatoes and nectarines than I am capable of carrying, yet, miraculously, they disappear from our table and fridge within just days. It seems that the resilient tiny cherry tomatoes have never tasted so sinfully sweet. For a box of these colorful delights, I would easily sacrifice the most decadent piece of chocolate cake, whereas the vertiginous smell of ripe melons could pretty much lur...

Recently I've developed a hard-to-keep-secret obsession with farmers market, and I am enjoying every moment of it.  It seems that I've never derived so much satisfaction from waking up early, walking up the stairs on Arizona Avenue and entering the magical world that unfolds in Downtown Santa Monica every Wednesday morning.  I buy a few peaches and a cup of chocolate macadamia coffee and run around with my phone camera, spying on the life around me, absorbing colors, smells and sounds.  I marvel at the buckets overflowing with stock flowers and buttercups. I meditate on grapefruits, tight with juice and glowing in the morning sunlight. I peak at the big fragrant loaves bread, resting heavily in baskets covered with unbleached linen. I get lost in the deep greenery of the bundles of spinach, arugula and Roman lettuce.  Most of all, however, I revel in observing people. Thin elderly ladies carrying canvas totes filled with leeks and artichokes. Sturdy ...