You Know, The Plates Mom Gave You & Are Only Pulled Out When You Want to Feel Boujee
I'm sitting in the living room of Tin House, the sun is trapped by a hand of clouds dimming the room. Hannah and I are on each of the navy blue couches, filled with coins and old candy wrappers- but made for the most inviting slow-morning reading spot. Hannah is holding her coffee in one hand with a Harry Potter book in the other. She reads a lot, I've never understood how she can sit and just, BE. I am taking this moment in- to just be- because it's Hannah's last weekend in Fayetteville, the end of July has called her to Memphis for her post-grad endeavors.
It was a usual lazy Saturday, so when Hannah arose from her literary slumber I was concerned the end to this slow morning was approaching. Moments later she waltzed under the shade of her "day at the beach" / Indiana Jones-esq straw hat. Her book had been replaced with her blue and red braided wicker basket. This "fit" was my glimpse into the rest of our morning- the Fayetteville Farmer's Market.
The Farmer's Market. A place that has nearly lost its meaning due to Instagram photos of girls holding flowers in front of old brick walls. But after that Saturday morning in July, we were able to see this place through a refreshing lens.
The four streets that build the Fayetteville Square are lined on each side with booths from local Ozark mountain farms. Their tables are filled with the season's work- striking red tomatoes, fresh green zucchinis and herbs just pulled from the garden.
We start the folk band on the corner, one member strums a banjo and the other hits the concrete with drumsticks- a striking resemblance between Fayetteville and New Orleans. We walk to the music toward the flower booth run by an older woman named May, she sells her flowers by the bouquet- smile included. The aroma of freshly baked sourdough from Dirty Apron Bakehouse circles the market, and our basket fills with the ingredients for homemade zoodles and marinara sauce.
At home, we wore aprons, spiraled zucchinis and swayed to the nostalgic sound of Norah Jones. We allowed ourselves to just be, no set plans.
My roommates and I sent a text to a few friends, telling them to come over for dinner if they could. So often we make plans and don't follow through with what we wanted to do if no one else is interested. But tonight we followed through, and invited people along so the fun could be had either way. It's wild how loose plans bring more people to the table, and for a planner like me it was freeing to learn such a thing.
That night set the tone for our summer, gathering around our small wooden table sipping wine while the sun went down. The friends I called family that summer showed up, and some showed up, so I now call them dear friends.
Those are the moments I hold dear from college, where we sat, ate, and forgot that the real world would eventually disrupt moments like these. And those are the moments I want to remember, where friendships grew stronger over my mom's hand-me-down purple dinner plates.
Article by EJ Turner
Comments