Strolling through the farmer’s market the other day, I happened upon a stand featuring the most gorgeous Costoluto Genovese tomatoes. And though I’m usually much more of an Ethiopia Roi or Bolndkopfchen guy, I bought a half-dozen anyway.
Honestly. I just couldn’t help myself!*
Michelle Obama phones to say she is not amused at your acutely arch and aridly dry mockery of the parking lot organic market community. It’s the little people selling Himalayan mungleberries grown in yak dung at $16 per pound that made her proud of this country.
Across the street from our farmer’s market sits the Heartland Farm Direct Market, a very upscale boutique grocer and deli. Because why would anyone buy a fistful of spring onions from some grimy, horny-handed Hmong dude, when they can cross the street and buy the same damn onions for ten times the price?
I don’t know how Heartland can hope to survive, what with the totebaggers all on hunger strikes…
(Full disclosure: Heartland makes the best damn croissants I’ve ever eaten in my life. Swear to God, they must tap ashes from Gauloises into the dough or sumpthin’.)
I’m not getting the link between Stalingrad, the HuffPo legal wars, and tomatoes. Unless they’re all rotten!
But I admit that some days I feel about as sharp as a bowling ball…
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So, following the metaphor to it’s conclusion,
ifwhen the dipshit free-bloggers lose their “case”, Chairwoman Arianna gets to march them all off (well, the survivors, anyway) to a gulag somewhere in the San Fernando valley?