 Farmer’s Market, Thy Name is Bliss!
The Insufferable Gourmand
Nick Rickles
I awoke on this most recent Sunday past with a fulsome, quivering tingle. It was a swarthy, sweltersome morn–yet I resolved to rise and wring every swampy drop of goodness from it. Because what awaited just a few stone-cobbled blocks from my door was enough to bring me to a blissful fit of lightly-salted tears.
"What thing, good Nicholas, could draw forth such emotions?" you ask, your nipple twitching ever so slightly in curious vexation.
"Ah, my feeble-minded squire," I respond, patting your greasy, mongoloid head with a rubber-gloved hand, "That thing is, of course, the Headhouse Square Farmers' Market."
Oh, yes.
In those shiverful winter months when the region's farmers are forced to stow their plows and smack their hoes, my soul, like the gentle dung beetle, lies dormant–withered, abased, writhing in melancholy. How else am I to feel when those most precious victuals–peaches, tomatoes, and, of course, the mighty asparagus–must be wrested from a place as dingy and prosaic as a supermarket? Even those fluorescent-lit barns which do not bring the bile surging through my esophagus–Trader Joe's and Whole Foods come to mind–cart in such produce from locales so remote as to cripple the intellect. And the quality of such produce, needless to say, is as loathsome as a Serbian war criminal. The peaches are feloniously devoid of flavor. The tomatoes are as pale and unenticing as a French whore's stubbled inner thighs. The asparagus lie flaccid and limp, like a boar-cock after the conquest. Alas, in those grey months of encroaching madness, starvation and the slow rot of the grave seem like welcome friends–a cozy respite from the searing pain of having to choke down such repugnant inedibles.
Ahh, but as the calendar-pages turn–from kitten in a teacup to kitten on a bedspread to kitten at a grand piano–my happiness, like a juice glass brimmed with Everclear, is fiercely replenished. And when the Headhouse Square Farmers' Market opens for business, I know that I can once again allow myself to feel truly, pantslessly alive.
I rushed out of my silk pajamas' insouciant caress and hastily brushed my teeth, eager not to miss so much as a microsecond of the market's sundry wonders. I felt like a child on the proverbial Christmas morn–but, with none of the sadness that comes with knowing that your boorish, unshaven father is again blind-drunk on rotgut whiskey. I threw on an impudent ensemble of short-pants and "tee-shirt", slid into my waiting docksiders, and, canvas bag clutched like an orphan's promise, made my way to Second and Lombard. As I nimbly hurdled a fresh-laid hound turd, I knew that this would be a day to remember.
The estimable brick arcade soon loomed before me, already teeming with jubilant Caucasians. I rushed in, spittle forming at the sides of my mouth, and made my first stop at old Comstock's bakery, where a table held loaves as fresh and precious as a newborn foal, slathered in its own steaming afterbirth. I welcomed the bearded lord of the hearth, and sampled a crusty morsel of his just-baked rosemary and olive-oil loaf.
Hosanna.
Had God himself descended from the heavens above to tongue-kiss my tastebuds, I could not have felt a more glorysome sensation. I snatched up two loaves, flung my money towards the apron-clad baker, and, as I felt the warm chill of insanity overcome me, dove into the crowd.
The next two hours were a joyous blur of sights, smells, and shirtless, deep-throated ululations. There were beets of the most rapacious purple, still encrusted in their earthy loam. There was romaine lettuce, pleading to be savagely sliced and hungrily gobbled, eliciting fond memories of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. There was artisan cheddar cheese, so sharp that it made the bowels drop in poopsome admiration. Table after table of the most glorious delights–meatful, fresh-slewn pork chops, escarole gazing my way ever so coquettishly, herbs so fresh I forgot what planet I was bound to–eventually became too overpowering for my paper-thin psyche to bear. The last I remember, I was crouched against a great brick pillar, naked and bawling, stroking my provision-stuffed satchel as if it were a propeller-wounded manatee. Yet no authorities were called–and, tho' my eyes were besotted with rushing tears, I saw that none of my fellow local-food enthusiasts looked askance at the nude, howling fellow in their midst. They, and they alone, could understand why I had been driven to such primal extremes.
It was farmer's market season. After a fearsome winter of self-loathing ennui and angry conversations with the bathroom mirror, it was finally here.
God bless us, one and all. And God bless you, farmer's market!
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South St. Frame Shops Showcase Scarface, 2Pac Art
June 10, 2008 –
The first annual South St. Frame-Shop Art Festival was held on Saturday to unanimous raves from art lovers and critics alike. "When one thinks of art in Philadelphia, it's generally in relation to the Parkway institutions, or, to a lesser degree, the galleries of Old City," said Stephan Salisbury, The Philadelphia Inquirer's culture writer, as he perused the New Image Gallery's vast collection of framed Rounders art. "So it's wonderful to come here and see hundreds of works, all dealing with subjects from poker to billiards to Tony Montana."
 Philadelphia magazine's Lauren McCutcheon was similarly impressed by the eight-gallery exhibition. "Not even Jasper Johns would've thought to put a replica handgun and a Cuban cigar in the same piece," she marveled, inspecting a Sopranos-inspired work at Millennium Art Gallery. "And there are dozens that are just as daring. My eyes have truly been opened today." According to Trinity Framing's Qadir Farid, who organized the event, "People don't really think about South St. when it comes to fine art. But with this festival, we have shown that, yes, our Photoshopped 2Pac prints are just as fine as any Barnes Foundation Renoir."
Art lover Ashley Johnston, 68, hoped that the event would become a Philadelphia tradition. "I simply cannot express how refreshing I find this work," she said, showing off a just-purchased Goodfellas photograph, hung on felt over a pair of handcuffs. "If they hold it next year, I'll almost certainly be first in line." Farid was pleased that the exhibition had been so warmly received. "All of us here on South St. have known that we possess some of the world's most beautiful masterpieces," he said, gesturing to a pistol-festooned Young Guns photograph. "It was just a matter of getting the word out, and exposing people to the beauty of a framed Scarface photo–with real bullets underneath, of course." |
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