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Citta Violenta.

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Toward a radical middle

a time for fear
Wednesday, December 17, 2003  

Marylebone farmers' market, on Sunday, between 10am and 2pm, in a car park off Cramer street. Bright day: glassy sky, air nips flushed skin. Picking through boxes of dusty vegetables, sprout stalks, pumpkins and crusty loaves. There's a stall that sells pheasant, partridge, wood pigeon, wild rabbit and venison. Game shrink-wrapped, all odd hues: deep blood red and sunset yellow. Other stalls specialise in dairy products: untreated milk, quail and duck eggs, brandy butter, rich rice pudding in foil containers. There are racks of apples, and a wicker basket full of hares in plastic. And there are fishmongers: one sells cockles, brown shrimp, mussels, Blakeney Point oysters, live crabs and lobsters in the back of a van; another has a striped apron and sells skate, sea bass, mackeral, dover sole and cod fillet on ice. A man makes lovely pies (pheasant and mushroom, mixed game, duck and orange, rabbit) and sells Aylesbury ducks. A look in my eye reveals hunger and dull, mild poverty ("sorry, I'm just looking"). There are big Christmas trees for sale and a nostalgic scent in the air. The lavender stall, though, is a bit much.

In Harrods food hall I discovered that the dairy counter sells empty Ostrich eggs (£25 each). Two scottish women stood behind me, one said, "that's ridiculous! Empty Ostrich eggs!" and the other said, "well, I guess you wouldn't want an Ostrich to hatch in your house," and the other said, "no, I suppose not."

A tasty directory of produce (for my own reference).

6:57 PM

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