At the Sunday Farmers’ Market, there are pummelos, Kabocha squash, hybrid cauliflower from Cornell University in your choice of orange or purple or pale green Italian heirloom cauliflower shaped like seashells. People sit at tables, in white plastic chairs around the band, and cross-legged on the grass. They sip coconut milk out of coconuts and eat corn off cobs and indulge in syrup-soaked blueberry pancakes big enough to pitch as tents and whipped cream dollopped, chocolate drizzled crepes. Kids with painted faces and balloon animal swords sit atop little ponies and wave. A little girl in a pink tutu and pink galoshes watches a magician pull a six-foot drinking straw from an ordinary brown paper lunch bag.
And then there’s this guy in a purple T-shirt that reads, “Ride the SLUT.” SLUT was the original acronym for Seattle’s streetcar: The South Lake Union Trolley. I have a difficult time finding “Ride the SLUT” funny. I realize that we live in a free country, blah blah blah, and people can wear whatever they want across their chests, but I also can’t help but see the little girl in her pink tutu and pink galoshes, who is just learning to read with the help of Zoo Phonics. She sounds out, “Sammy Snake, Lizzy Lizard, Umber Umbrella Bird, Timmy Tiger,” and tugs on the sleeve of her father’s shirt to ask, “Daddy, what’s a slut?”
But, hey, wear whatever you want to the Farmers’ Market. Wear pink kitten heels with your white sweat pants. Take your Walk of Shame in the stilettos and mini dress you wore last night through the omelet line. There’s no dress code. I mean, you’re just there to get some organic produce and stick it to the man by supporting small farmers, right?
Or maybe you’re there for the clothes. A person could almost put together a complete outfit at the Farmers’ Market. I say “almost” because there isn’t anyone selling shoes. Not yet.
I imagine that someday, someone will carve Kabocha squash into clogs and, when curious people pick up the weird-looking shoes, the Kabocha Clog vendor will say, “It’s a squash. No, really. Try on a pair. What size do you wear?” Curious folks will laugh, embarrassed, but sit down on the little stool in the Kabocha Clog booth anyway, because they have nothing better to do right now than put squash on their feet. The vendor will explain that Kabochas are nicknamed Japanese pumpkins, and that the shoes are carved by Buddhist monks or Australian Aborigines, and that Kabocha squash is really good for you because it has lots of beta-carotene and Vitamin C. You’ll tell the vendor that you’re just looking today, but thank you, and she’ll say “Any time,” and give you her card. On the back will be a recipe for Kabocha soup.
But that’s someday. Sunday, you can try on dresses that are $20 — no — $10, and rings made out of coconut shell and wood that are made in Hawaii, and cheap, big sunglasses that look fabulously fun and break the first time you drop them.
You can save the wild orangutans by purchasing a Balinese purse made of a material akin to rattan. Five whole percent of your purchase — five whole percent — will fund initiatives to educate people about the plight of wild orangutans. And your purse will never become discolored.
Or maybe you’re in the market to balance your karma or attract your chi or chicken-soup your soul. Might I interest you in a beaded necklace? It’s handmade silk macramé and can be worn long, layered, or as a choker.
For the fashion-forward infant, there are onesies screen-printed with Che Guevara. No, five percent of your purchase does not go toward saving internationalist guerrillas.
MARIEL HOWSEPIAN digs black coffee, fairy tales and a man in coveralls. She lives in Santa Monica and
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on February 15, 2008. Read the original PDF.