I Hate Hippies!

Well, I did it. I horrified Byron last night. I took him to a Farmers Market, with the hopes of getting some good local produce, maybe a homemade loaf of bread, perhaps a chunk o' fudge. Instead, we came away with gaped mouths and shocked senses.

See, Byron is a simple man, in that he's not a granola or pretentious. He's a good guy from rural Alberta and I adore him. He, too, thought we were off to get some green beans and a cookie. We did not bargain for what we got.

Instead of stalls of colourful fruits and vegetables, we got tables teetering with homemade purses and homemade books. Someone was selling hunks of honeycombs. There were crystals, naturally. We gravitated to a table with some vegetables, and we found some small yellow plums. He found a bag of "Jips". "Jips" are chocolate chip oatmeal cookies. Why the hippies called them "Jips" is beyond me, but the name makes me laugh.

The piece de resistance, though, was the sight in the field next to the market. A gaggle of grubby hippies sat in a circle, singing/moaning, strumming a guitar and swigging from jugs of wine. What was missing was the unmistakeable stench of patchouli and weed. I am certain it was there, but I wasn't cozying up to confirm.

All the while, Byron was silently stunned. He was confused and disoriented and his face held the look of horror. He grew up in the country, on farms, no less, so he knows what a farmers market is and should be. This was no farmers market. This was a band of hippies selling their shit, and I do mean shit. We clasped our hands tighter, grabbed our bag of Jips, and hightailed it out of Hippie Hell.

There are lists of farmers markets all over Victoria, and I am hoping one of them holds promise. I just want some cheap, Okanagan peaches!

Longingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt