No spaces are reserved. Event is rain or shine.
Kenny hopped off her three-speed and followed the arrow on the sign that led her down a narrow path to a crushed shell lot, adja cent to a large pavilion. The pavilion bustled with vendors and shoppers. She noticed a cluster of bicycles parked around a steel rack and wiggled the front fat tire of the cruiser into an empty slot between an adult raspberry red tricycle and a much sleeker black Cannondale road bike. The bikes were so compact that she didn’t even need to put down the kickstand on the flashy orange bike for it to stay vertical.
Kenny grabbed her burlap bag and made her way up the long ramp to the large octagonal structure. She quickly observed three different groups of people milling from stand to stand. The weekly shoppers who methodically darted from one table to the next with intention, filling their baskets with produce, eggs, and baked goods. The vacationers or first timers, like Kenny, who weaved in and out of the rows of tables to get a sense of what was available before making a purchase. She imagined they made mental inventories of the bushels of berries and ears of sweet corn they passed, before committing to one stand. The final group of marketgoers were either a mix of island retirees and people who didn’t have day jobs or paid undercover agents employed by whomever organized the farmers market to push the goods that were for sale. They meandered around singing the praises of the local farmers and craftsmen and initiated conversation with anyone who would listen.
“Kelly’s hydrating face mask and Sleep No More undereye serum are going to be featured inInStylenext month. Her products are liquid gold!” Kenny overheard a Botox-injected middle-aged woman telling a tired young mother who was pushing a double stroller past the Kelly’s Organics table.
Kenny wanted to smell the soy candles at Kelly’s Organics, but speed walked past the table for fear of being cornered by the woman whose forehead didn’t move and who talked her into buying a cream she didn’t need. The Tupperware bin of unused beauty products disguised as self-care supplies under the sink at The Dollhouse was proof that the promise of any age-defying elixir had Kenny reaching for her wallet.
She continued down a long stretch of blackberries, blueberries, apples, and peaches and suddenly craved a giant mixed fruit salad. The vibrant colors and spacious display presented major curb appeal. She barely came to a complete halt when she stopped at the fruit cart on the corner of West Sixty-Eighth Street every Tuesday morning and grabbed the closest bunch of bananas and bag of grapes she could reach from the top shelf. The method to her fruit purchasing madness was that the produce on the top shelf was less handled. Until the day she wore flats and realized that 99 percent of the Upper West Side’s population over the age of twelve was taller than her and eye level with the top shelf . . . therefore, reaching for that exact spot. Then she started haphazardly grabbing whatever fruit looked like it was going to fall off the overcrowded cart and onto the sidewalk. This experience was completely different. She inspected the apples for damaged spots, smelled the peaches for sweetness, and even taste-tested a few berries before she filled her bag.
She made her way through the entire market and circled back around to pick up Vidalia onions and a head of Parris Island Cos. She didn’t know that romaine lettuce came in different varieties and imagined the crunchy leaves tasted the same as any other Caesar salad. But she liked the fancy name and the farmer who explained that the heirloom green was developed by Clemson University in the 1950s and had the highest nutritional value of any lettuce, a bonus since healthy eating was high on her Hiatus of Life Conditions List.
If I had friends or knew anyone on this island, I’d invite them over for a pool side lunch and serve marinated grilled chicken breast over a bed of Parris Island Cos, Kenny thought.
The humidity and high temperatures had to be hovering around the yellowish-orange blocks on the National Weather Service’s heat index chart. The crowds dispersed, but Kenny stuck around until she was able to find a spot at the salsa and granola stand. The regulars, tourists, meanderers, and even other vendors beelined for the red and white checked tablecloths lined with jars of salsa and bags of granola. All the marketgoers carried around white paper bags sealed with “The Salsa Man” sticker. She wasn’t sure if the product was that good or if people made pity purchases after chowing down on The Salsa Man’s abundance of free samples, but she wanted to find out.
Kenny began sampling at the table with the granola. She picked up a handful of small plastic spoons and went down the line of seven bowls filled with different combinations of nuts, oats, dried fruits, seeds, and sweeteners. She scooped up tablespoon sized samples and popped them into her mouth, occasionally taking a swig from her Swell bottle to cleanse her palette.
“These are delicious,” Kenny said to The Salsa Man, while she shoveled another bite into her mouth. “Next week I’ll eat breakfast before I come. I guess this is why they say to never go to the grocery store on an empty stomach.” She laughed.
“Don’t sweat it, miss. I always have plenty of samples available for people to enjoy. I wish I could give it all away for free, but the wife won’t allow it,” The Salsa Man said with a wink and smile.
“That’s very generous of you. I’ll take a bag of Original Oats and Peanut Butter Crunch, please. And I’d like to pay for them,” Kenny joked as she dug in her cross-body bag for cash.
“You can’t stop there. Salsa Man’s rule is if you try all his granola, you have to sample all of his salsas, too,” a man chimed from behind Kenny.
“Oh, it’s this guy,” The Salsa Man huffed. “When are you going to stop scaring away my pretty, young customers?”
“When you stop telling people where you take your golf lessons. It’s not good for business,” the man replied.
Kenny could tell from the banter and the expression on The Salsa Man’s face that the ribbing was cordial and when she turned around to add to the conversation, she forgot her witty one-liner just as quickly as she came up with it.
“J.P.! Hey, how are you?” she attempted to say in a cheerful, but calm, collected, not too over the top way.
“I had a feeling that was you. I noticed a bright orange bike parked near mine and figured I’d bump into someone from Pelican Pointe. There’s no flying under the radar on that thing.” J.P. laughed, motioning toward the bike racks.
“Yes, I’m sure you can see me coming from a mile away,” Kenny smiled and shrugged.
I came down here to fly under the radar and stay to myself. And the only person who I’d potentially want to know thinks I’m an uncoordinated, granola-eating bad driver who falls ass over tin cups when approached by tiny animals and peddles around the plantation on a bright orange clown bike,Kenny thought.
“But I’m lucky to have it,” she quickly continued, forcing herself to make conversation so she didn’t accidentally blurt out what she was really thinking. “This whole trip was very spur of the moment. I drove down in a one-way rental car and hadn’t given much thought to how I would get around the five weeks I was here.”
“That’s just one of the many great things about Sea Pines. You don’t reallyneeda car if you don’t mind walking and biking. The plantation has a shuttle, and you can always call an Uber if you’re in a jam. You might enjoy not having to rely on a car every day,” J.P. assured.
“I never mind walking; I love walking. I live in Manhattan, so my feet have been my main source of transportation for the last decade. They’ve been more reliable than public transportation lately, too,” Kenny said, hoping the joke didn’t fall flat.
“You’re one of those city girls, eh? I don’t know how you all do it. I give you credit but think you must be a little crazy to want to live in that chaos. And that subway, forget it. Don’t get me started,” he shook his head and crossed his arms.
Kenny raised her eyebrows and gave him an inquisitive look, hoping he’d continue the story. Although she barely knew J.P., she thought the slightly agitated version of him was adorable.
“If I had a dollar for every time I had to hear this story.” The Salsa Man laughed and walked away to help another customer.
“I’ll give the abbreviated version. My buddies and I met in New York for a night to catch a Yankees-Red Socks game. We splurged on the fancy field level infield seats, we were pumped. We were having a few beers at the Perfect Pint in Midtown before the game and the bartender talked us out of taking a cab to the stadium. He said it was an easy subway ride up to the Bronx. ‘Get on the 4 train and follow the crowd,’ he said. Easy enough, right? That’s what we did. When we got off the subway, we were in freaking Brooklyn!”
“Oh no! I’m guessing the large crowd you followed were all wearing Nets jerseys andnotYankee gear?” Kenny poked.
“You know, I’ve been asked that exact question once or twice over the years and will continue to plead the fifth.Anyway, what do you think?” J.P. raised his hands and looked around referring to the farmers market. “Impressive, right. A few years ago, only about five or six vendors set up. I heard there are over forty booths here today.”
