After two days of wrestling with moving boxes and feeding on corn nuts left over from our cross-country drive, I ventured out of our new nest in search of provisions — hopefully not corn-based.
I landed in Hudson, 12 minutes of beautiful countryside from our house, parked my car (25 cents an hour!) and found the Farmer’s Market…
The market is a fraction of the size of our old Santa Monica Farmer’s Market, but a fraction of the size is what we were going for when we moved here. I happily wandered around and picked up “local” everything to tunes provided by a folk singer doing her best Joan Baez.
“This is going to work,” I thought happily to myself as I headed back to the car, deposited my fresh veggies and headed down Warren Street to Dogs of Hudson, which, I had been told, was charming purveyor of canine provisions. On the way, I passed more high-end antique stores than I could count, each more refined and inviting than the last. And yet, I somehow found myself longing for the early morning grit of the Pasadena City College Flea Market.
In Dogs Of Hudson, I learned all about the evils of Western Veterinary medicine and the miracle properties of blackstrap molasses for canine well-being. As I walked back to the car, I wondered if Sylvie had “farm-to-table” needs. And is there such a thing as a free-range Milk Bone?…and then I passed one too many folk singers.
“Seriously?” I thought, “What IS this place and how did I get here?” And just when I was plummeting into a sour and decidedly unfolksy mood, a herd of beefy, tatted bikers thundered down the street.
And just like that, I felt happy again.