The Kettle Corn Was Worth It

Nine in the morning and it was twenty-eight degrees. I know because I checked my phone before I left and stood in the kitchen for a full minute deciding whether I actually wanted to do this.

The market runs year-round on Saturdays, which I respect enormously, because almost no one shows up in January. It was maybe a third of the summer crowd, a few regulars who looked like they'd been doing this since before I was born, a couple of people walking dogs who clearly also needed an excuse to leave the house. The vendor count was down but the kettle corn stand was there, because obviously it was. I don't know what those people are made of but I respect it. I spent three dollars and ate some standing up before I even made it to the next tent.

Browsing the winter tables

I ended up doing a slow loop, not because I was being thorough but because I wasn't in a hurry. There's a woman who sells small potted things, herbs, mostly, and a few succulents, and I stopped at her table longer than made sense given that I already have a plant on my windowsill that I am only intermittently remembering to water. She didn't push. I didn't buy anything. I just looked.

The reason I came

I drove home with the rest of the kettle corn on the passenger seat and the heat turned all the way up. It took about ten minutes for my fingers to stop being cold. Worth it, though, and I mean that sincerely, not in an Instagram way. There's something about showing up to a small thing on a Saturday in January that makes the rest of the day feel a little more earned.