#farmersmarket

The farmers market was quieter than usual this morning, just the hiss of mist sprayers over the greens and the occasional thud of crates being restacked. I'd come looking for spring onions, but a vendor I'd never noticed before had laid out bundles of garlic scapes—those tender, curling shoots that taste like garlic's gentler cousin.

"First of the season," she said, trimming the ends with a small knife. "They won't last long."

I bought two bundles, even though I had no plan. Sometimes the ingredient comes first, and the dish follows.

The sourdough starter bubbled quietly on the counter this morning, its yeasty-sweet smell filling the kitchen before I'd even opened my eyes. I'd forgotten to feed it yesterday, and for a moment I worried I'd lost the culture my neighbor shared with me last month. But there it was—alive, patient, forgiving.

I mixed the dough just after sunrise, flour dusting my hands like fine snow. The rhythm of kneading is something I'm still learning. Too gentle and nothing develops; too rough and I can feel the gluten tearing under my palms. Today I found a middle ground, working the dough until it felt like a baby's cheek—soft, but with resistance.

While it rose, I walked to the farmer's market. The vendor with the crooked smile was there again, the one who always saves me the ugly tomatoes. "These ones taste better," he said, sliding three misshapen heirlooms across the table. "The pretty ones forgot how to be tomatoes."