What's the story, Morning Glory?

There are two kinds of people in this world. Morning people and everyone else. I fall into the former category. I have always been an early riser, so much so that my family gave me the nickname Sunshine as a child. While the nickname has since fallen out of favor, my pension for waking up early has not. Even in college, I’m that weird girl that goes to bed before midnight and is up by 7.

That came in handy this weekend when my family came to take me to the farmer’s market in town. I was ready by 7:30, they picked me up at 8 and away we went. After a quick pit stop for pumpkin spice lattes and doughnuts we made it to the market before too large of a crowd had formed.

 

 

Back home, there’s a flea market we go to most Saturday mornings – always certain to leave by 7:30 to beat the crowds and the traffic. We arrive as vendors, their eyes still heavy with sleep, finish setting up their booths. The grass sparkles with dew and the air is still cool, becoming too warm only after we’ve left. We walk around the dirt paths, enjoying the relative silence and each other’s company more than anything else.

Those trips to the flea market are one of the things I miss most when I’m at school. The farmer’s market has become a relative approximation, but instead of antique farm tools, used paperback books, and chipped teacups there are ripe, plump tomatoes and crisp, tart apples for sale. My family’s visit was short and sweet, not unlike the peaches I bought. The small taste of home I was desperately hungry for.

 Wait until you see what I make with these!

I guess the farmer’s market may be a little better than back home. After all, I can’t cook with an antique farm tool or eat a chipped teacup.