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Passing through the farmers market at Daley Plaza recently, I was tempted by blueberries, peaches and sweet corn. I hesitated because buying anything would mean lugging it to work and back across the Loop at the end of the day–complicated, of course, by concerns about the squish factor.
But the tomatoes, trumpeted as “Michigan” and “garden” on hand-lettered signs, were particularly compelling for some reason. Maybe it was the memory of some especially good ones enjoyed while on a family vacation this summer. Or . . . maybe it was something else.
With the tomatoes dangling in a plastic bag on my arm, I yielded to another impulse: to call my sister who lives on a farm in southeast Missouri.
I caught her out in the garden, picking tomatoes.