It’s Sunday at noon, and the open-air vendors are planted in their usual spots — picklers pressed against the outer edge while growers forest the pathways with kale, collard greens, and patches of lavender. The customers weave in and out like bees around the ambrosial samples of peaches, honey, and strawberries, cheeses and jams ready to be slathered on mountains of brown bread. And suddenly she emerges, carrying bags of her belongings, dressed in layers and wearing a ski cap someone probably tossed after the season ended. We shift uncomfortably, backing away, all except for the small man selling apples. He hands her a large slice of Ginger Gold, and she completes the ritual with a bawdy salute while, in her wake, the rest of us self-consciously examine tomatoes as if unable to understand the rows and rows of vines, or how the carrot, unearthed, achieves its certainty of sweetness.