Here's what's peachy...
Shaking the hand of the farmer (hi, Bob!) that grew the veggies I'm going to eat for dinner. Veggies that were picked with obvious pride. (He blushed under his silvery beard when I complimented his produce).
Cohabiting harmoniously amongst the good-for-you stuff? Cupcakes and spicy roasted nuts and fresh-baked bread and cheese, glorious cheese.
Samples like Costco too. (Why yes, hippie lady, I would like to taste your hemp seed coconut macaroons).
My haul - minus the nibbles of Rosemary Sea Salt Bread that seem to have disappeared into my mouth on the drive home...
I've never been a stickler for eating local. I pop into the mega-chain grocery store on the reg without guilt. But after meeting a few of the vendors and fawning over the freshness (and the colors), I might trek to Atherton Market more often.
Even if just to be entertained by the man running the Pickleville stand - a fellow Texas transplant/former commercial fisherman/current pickle-pickler - with tales of playing jazz in historic Austin venues and running for mayor of Port Aransas in the nineties.
"I only lost by ninety-eight votes. Ninety-eight. Can you believe that?"
(I'm kicking myself for not snapping a picture).