Golden Nuggets
I don’t know about you, but when I go into some form of survival mode – head down and just doing what needs to be done to make it through the day – making time for yourself can feel like an indulgence. I’m learning, though.
I headed to the Saturday morning farmers market a couple weekends ago to clear my head. As I felt the warmth of the morning sunshine, breathed in the smell of freshly made pupusas, malasadas, and kettle corn, I could feel the tightness in my neck and jaw loosen a bit. I dodged a precocious toddler who’d made a break from her dad hovering over her protectively. The mushroom vendor to my right had a crowd much larger than usual. And the stall to my left had a table full of ripe guavas and passionfruit, which surprised me, seeing them this late into the winter.
As is usually the case, a large group huddled around the sample bins in front of Ken’s Top Notch Produce out of Reedley. Kids reached their hands in for second and third servings of freshly cut orange slices, grown-ups waiting patiently behind them for their turn.
“Fresh Cara Cara oranges…” a kid working the stand said as he held out a small slice with metal tongs. “Sure,” I said, and raised my hand toward him. I love Cara Caras. I took a bite, and pulled the peel away cleanly. I couldn’t help but let out a “Mmmm…” as juice ran down my chin. “Soooo good,” a lady next to me smiled and nodded behind oversized sunglasses.
I ducked under the large white canopy, and eyed a long table with a mound of tennis ball-sized oranges with bumpy skin. “Golden Nuggets. These are my favorites.” It was Ken, piling on more from a small crate he held in his left hand. “Very sweet, very low acid.”
I turned one over in my hand. “They’re hard to grow, though,” he continued. “Why’s that?” I asked. “The watering has to be just right, real consistent, or else the skins crack.” I looked at the Golden Nugget mandarin in my palm and placed it along with a few more in my bag.
Shortly after, I grabbed a seat in the sunshine at the top of the concrete stands that curved around home base of one of the softball fields. Behind me, the high-pitched pings of metal bats striking balls at the batting cage. I unwrapped a freshly made pupusa de loroco con queso, carefully poured out a vinegary curtido that accompanied it in a small plastic bag, and spooned a little red salsa on top.
My thoughts started turning back to the endless to-do list that awaited me back at home. I could feel my shoulders tense. “Heads-up!” a man taking swings on the softball field yelled as his foul ball fell harmlessly to my right.
On the too-short drive back home down Carson Ave., the windows open to feel the breeze, I could still smell the bright fragrance of the Cara Cara orange on my fingers.
