I love everything about markets. I love finding them, I love the metro to get there, the tram ride from the metro, the following of the cabas roulettes (finally figured out the word; am sneakily investigating everyone who uses one and plotting a purchase) in front of me to figure out how to get there and then absolutely everything that happens from there on. Talking, dashing, picking, putting back, tasting, proudly taking the tram two stops from the metro back to my apartment cause two kilos of oranges, 10 onions, three avocados and three apples among other things are a bit… lourds.
It’s Sunday, it’s market day. I went to the marché Croix Rousse today so that I could figure out what people are eating and where they are buying it from, because so far I’ve bought most food from either Carrefour or small épiceries where fruit is overpriced and it feels like dépanneur city.
The market was beautiful; it unfolded down a winding avenue that ran along the edge of a plateau – la Croix Rousse is high up a hill, where I found wide stairways and les pavés partout which always make me feel like I should walk like a lady.
The market was bustling, bustling bustling despite this flat gray day and I found myself swept into the crowd and not able to spend as much time being all meandering and thrilled like I would like to be. But I embraced it! I moved quickly and acknowledged that this wasn’t the Union Square Green Market with its circular trajectory that leaves me spiralling for hours accidentally-on-purpose, nor was it the McGill Farmer’s Market with perhaps 10 vendors on a sidestreet (I love you Farmers’ Market, please know that)- this was where I’m going grocery shopping. Forever. Fresh yogurt and raw milk cheese, charcuterie and des huitres and tons of fruit and vegetables, of course. They’ll chop your squash up for you if you want! I didn’t want.
As I try to figure out how to be open to cooking differently without being overly intentional about it, I’ve decided that this bonus vacation that I have before school will be best used just walking through markets and staring into boulangeries and dreaming up the potential of a whole-wheat brioche. In the mean time, I’ve bought a tiny muffin tray for my tiny oven, so we’ll see what real brioche looks like. Miam.