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(post, Christina Eng)
At a farmers' market across town, I stocked up on strawberries but could not yet locate rhubarb. Darn. When I emailed a friend in snowy Colorado afterward, and talked of having enough luscious red fruit to last the week but unfortunately still no rhubarb, she envied the year-round farmers' markets in the Bay Area. To which I asked, semi-seriously: What, aren't all farmers' markets year-round? Spoken indeed like a fruit-privileged Californian. I am reminded of the mildly morbid but telling story a brother used to share about a man who complained of having no shoes until he saw somebody else with no feet.