A Bowl of Cherries

I go religiously to the Alemany Farmer’s Market on Saturdays. I’ve been going for decades now. Farmer’s markets have sprung up all over the city, but I am faithful to Alemany. It now has it’s share of “foodies”, of which I have to be one of the first, but it remains wildly diverse, a relic of the San Francisco I refuse to let go of.

I’ve been a Pagan since my early twenties. It was then, after my father’s suicide and the death a beloved cousin, that I moved to a small town on the Oregon coast. Recognizing the cycles of the moon and the turning of the tides became a lifeline as I moved through the shadowland of grief.  When I got sturdier, I moved to San Francisco.  It has been here that for most of my adult life I celebrated the turn of the wheel at public rituals.

The days of public ritual are past, but the farmer’s market remains. Here, I celebrate the first asparagus and rejoice during the brief weeks that asparagus, fava beans, and cherries are all in season.  Winter means root vegetables, Napa cabbage and empty booths. The woman who sells zucchini, summer squash and berries also sells sweet peas in early summer, replaced by sunflowers later on. The cycle of the earth around the sun is marked by the bounty of the earth through the changing seasons. 

Last Saturday was no different.  A close friend had surgery on Friday and our fears were confirmed that she has ovarian cancer. She had a ticket to fly to Italy that Saturday, the first trip to Europe in her lifetime. Instead, she is in the hospital trying to fart so she can eat something other than broth and jello. I was going  to see her on Sunday and my quest was to bring her a bouquet of fresh flowers and to get my usual provisions for the week.

So, I move through the market, collecting delphiniums  sweet peas and roses. I’m happy to see there is still spring garlic to buy and notice there is no longer a fava bean to be found. And then I go to the booth on the southwest corner where I get cherries.

Picking through the boxes of ripe cherries a man next to me says to the farmer “Is this the last of them?”  This startles me. Cherries have come early this year, I think because of the drought. But I expect them to last through June and into July.  “Next week will be the last, most likely, so get your fill”, says the farmer.

And I lose it.  Which seems to be happening a lot these days.  I say “NO!” with more emotion than anyone around me is prepared for and the tears start.  I am blubbering and saying I am sorry, my good friend has cancer  and I can’t stand that it is the end of cherry season. Then the guy next to me and the farmer get embarrassed and kind all at the same time.  There are lots of “I am sorry” and while that is happening I somehow buy 20 bucks worth of cherries.

Life is indeed bowl of cherries. Sweet, lush, and only here for a short time. I go home and make a cherry clafouti for dessert that night and put the flowers on my altar to charge up for the hospital visit the next day.

What can we do but honor  the place we are on the wheel and fully taste it?  And in the tasting, to be mindful that some are living on broth and jello. My dear friend doesn’t fart until sometime Wednesday. And, there’s a huge bag of pitted cherries in the freezer with her name on it.