At the market each Sunday, a wonderful group of people are gathered to buy and sell items. Fruits, vegetables, nuts, flowers, coffee, and more, fill the park with liveliness and a particular freshness.
The woman who makes choclo, sweet and buttery. Next to her stacks of 5, rest several yuca cakes neatly wrapped in plastic. She smiles big and wide.
The man at the corner stand, who shakes my hand firmly, asks me where I was last week, and always undercharges. He’ll throw in an extra vegetable and give me a wink.
The woman with the glasses, who makes the kind of arepas for me. She knows we like the quinoa and cranberry the best, and offers us new flavors to try.
The woman with a tougher face, standing behind the sizzling vat of oil. Even if there’s a crowd instead of a line, she knows exactly who’s next. She’ll get your carimañola ready, and believe me, it’s worth the wait.
The couple at the opposite corner stand, with items found at no other. Homemade salsa, pre-cut green onions, bags of uchuvas or moras, and on occassion, asparagus. They’ll ask if we want the spicy or the less-spicy salsa, and we’ll always say both.
The woman in the back corner, with the cheaper cups of coffee. She fries up empanadas while we squeeze to the back, cutting in line, to order. The bigger cup, of course.
Mr. Tortifruit, who sells the most heavenly muffins and cakes. I make a point not to look him in the eye, knowing I can’t enjoy them myself. Jonathan stuffs 2 or 3 in his backpack for breakfast.
The lovely woman with the essential oils. She won’t remember us, so she’ll tell us again and again about each kind and what it’s good for. I’ll buy them all for baths and bedtime routines.
I’m thankful to see them this week and grateful to know their faces well now. My fridge is full of delicious foods to eat and my heart is full from seeing them.