Some times, the idea of dinner is just a vague concept. At the end of a busy work day, it sits in front of me, arms crossed: looming; staring me down. 

This day is a hot day, one of those days you feel the sweat start to bead at your hairline moments after you shower. This day is a busy day, I leave my office with two different lists in my head: This Did Not Get Done; This Must Be Started. 

I push open the metal and glass building door to leave. The bar is cool to the touch.

Hot air dense with moisture rolls back the air from inside along the arc of motion. As I walk to my car the air settles into my clothes and hair, it seeps into my lungs. I open the door to my car and willfully enter into the small box of condensed heat and humidity. I put the windows down and wonder if it could ever rain inside a car. 

The Primordia Farm Food Hub opened at the beginning of the summer, 2016. The owners are Jesse Tobin and Matt Sicher. The stand offers produce from several different farms, beautiful breads, rich dairy, and some prepared foods and juices. Everything from local producers. 

I am brain tired, my skin is tacky, and my internal monologue is a total bitch session. Blasting Agent Orange did not help make me feel better. My furrowed brow relaxes as my gaze finally focuses on Ellen behind the counter of the stand. She wears a smile. She says, "Hi!". I start to feel better.

I read the coloured-chalk board that lists all this day's offerings. I see someones hand in the writing and gentle line designs of the border. I start to feel a little bit more, better. I read the names of the farms. I picture faces that go with the names. People who turn dirt, who cultivate this land. People who turn milk, of the cows and sheep that help keep the land healthy, into cheese and butter. People who turn raw flour and water into nourishment. My mind is quiet, now, as I look into the deep greens of kales and lettuces. I see the shine of the cabbage. I smell dill and parsely. I walk along an embodied rainbow, and choose the colours that call for my touch. 

I am not thinking about dinner. I am playing, with colour and scent. 

I cradle the goods in my arms and walk up to the counter, to Ellen. We talk about her thoughts on approaching graduation from university. I ask her how her mom is doing. She asks how my son is doing. They were in the same grade throughout primary school. I am better.

At home, my youngest son is waiting for me to arrive so he can finish his chores. He has to wait for me to practice his violin, because he is thirteen, and he lies, so: I need to hear him play. I begin to clean and break down the produce, with scales and Seitz and Vivaldi mixing with the colours in my hands and the scents in my head. I ride the wave to see what will happen.

This Happened:

Skillet Cabbage w Scapes, and Dill&Carraway Seed Dressed in a Whipped Sweet Potato & Tarragon Sour Cream Sauce; Topped w Primordia Mixed Mushrooms, Fresh Rainbow Carrots, Yellow&Green Zucchini, Onions, Scapes, Sage&Thyme.