This locavore thing has got me a little whacked out.

Saturday morning and the alarm goes off at 6:45am. I pop up, jump into whatever clothing I step on, rinse my mouth out with apple juice and I'm briskly out the door to the farmers' market - racing the other crazies to this year's first cuttings.

We live within walking distance to the market but at this time of the week it's more like a reluctant jogging distance than anything else - way too close for the car or even a bike and just far enough that walking seems - well - like walking.

As I arrive I find myself muttering "What the hell are all these other people doing here... the market doesn't open for another three minutes!"

I snake through the potted herbs and slip past the coolers of frozen meat my pace quickening. As I pass the gazebo and round the corner I see it prominently displayed, shining even in the morning air. The object of this moment's compulsion. My prize. I break into full stride and almost dive into the farmer's table my money in hand.

Safe.