In praise of the farmer's market

On a Saturday, one of the best places to be in any town is at the farmer's market.

Fresh corn spilling out from a truck bed; bags and bags of cucumbers ready to be brought home and drowned in vinegar and spice; tender zucchini, yellow and green; shallots folded in their papery skins.

Today in Bismarck, vendors were bundled up against the wind and momentary cloudbursts. Market umbrellas were gripped tightly, threatening to turn their holders into a prairie version of Mary Poppins, and some came very close to blowing right across the tables. Coffee and talk were flowing as locals hunted down the summer's garden treasures.

There is such a short window of time on the northern plains when people can grow vegetables, little more than three months, sometimes less, so everyone knows to make the most of it. A truck bed mounded full corn is emptied in two hours; tomatoes (if they're ready) disappear into shopping bags as the buyer gasps their delight with finding them at all so early in the season. People talk of canning, and the taste of homegrown fruits in the middle of a January deep-freeze.

The question, 'what do you do with that?' passes between everyone's lips: kitchen conspirators, all.

Summer scene - July 21

The scene on Saturday evening as Bismarck people meandered north and south on 3rd street, just up the hill from the town center. The sun was low in the sky, streaking it pink and yellow. Humidity floated in windows and clung to t-shirts, hair, skin. The elm trees cast long shadows across the high school's soccer field, where, in the shaggy summer grass, a group of teenagers were playing soccer. Flashing in and out between them were two white figures: nuns, their ankle-length habits billowing behind. Rope belts swinging with every jogging step, veils streaking out, smiles wide on their faces. Nuns sprinting after a soccer ball, tackling gangly kids and causing sudden joy to stir in every person who had the fortune to look their way.