To market, to market…

It’s one of the great things about living on the Hill, an excuse to don a cute summer dress – frankly more for comfort than as a fashion statement, since the dog days arrived early this year. (The sign on a local bank flashed 93 degrees as I walked by this afternoon.) Cloth bags slung over my shoulder, I approach the familiar stretch of Seventh Street, lost in my own thoughts as I weave through a mass of humanity (and strollers).

Eastern Market doesn’t seem as loud as usual today. Perhaps the humidity is dulling the sound, or at least the willingness to make it. Maybe the weather kept some people home altogether. Regardless, this market-day seems subdued, which fits not only the climate, but my mood. I don’t feel like a high-powered Washingtonian today, just a girl who wants some fresh material for her kitchen. I pull out and consult my list before a quick walk-through of the major produce offerings, briefly comparing prices on what I need – onions, zucchini, mushrooms, lettuce, red bell peppers…

The booth with the best price on zucchini, fortuitously, also has the best-looking squash, so I start there. Then to the next booth over for onions and bell peppers that actually smell like a bell pepper should. I pick up mushrooms at the same place I splurge on blueberries (so totally worth it). Each of the venders look like they are in need of an iced coffee, but they still smile and laugh and engage anyone who is willing in conversation.

I venture inside the brick market to a vender I have often admired but never patronized: the cheese shop. I know I could probably procure the mozzarella I need from the corner store just across the street from my apartment, but the allure of fresh cheese is too much of a temptation today. (I blame my weakness on my viewing of Julie & Julia this week.) I gladly surrender a few dollars for a small bag of perfect mozzarella.

A brimming bag now over each shoulder, I wander through the rest of the market, catching pieces of conversations between friends, spouses, venders, and – of course –dogs. (A lot of people take the if-you-want-a-friend-in-Washington-get-a-dog adage quite seriously.) I admire the brilliant orange sunflowers in white buckets, the scent of Thai basil, and relish the breeze graciously sent to take the edge off the afternoon.

And as I follow the brick sidewalks back to my apartment under a canopy of verdant trees, I count my blessings.