For the second Sunday in a row, I took my bike down our farmer's market on Glendale Blvd. The only thing missing for me at the Atwater farmer's market is a fish monger. There was a great fish guy at the market in my old nabe of West Hollywood - I squeed loudly when I saw him on an episode of last season's "Top Chef" - "Even my FISH MONGER is famous!" - but it's a great market nonetheless.
I tore through the market, and made the acquaintence of an adorable little munchkin named Roberrrto, who was from Peru and didn't seem to have a mum or dad, but also didn't seem bothered by it. I popped across Glendale to the Atwater Village Street Festival. I'd toyed with the idea of entering the Atwater Village Cookie Contest, but then I read the incredibly threatening...um...threat from the Atwater Village Newbie. Oh yeah? I'll see you next year, mutherchuckers!
The festival was great, especially (or in spite of) the devastatingly adorable pen of puppies looking for homes. I almost brought home a baby brother or sister for Miss Molly Malone, but she's having such a rough go of it with all the itchies that I thought it best to leave it be. I do miss the great street fests in New York, especially the sausage and peppers. And ugly ponchos. And questionable linens. But mostly, I miss sausage and peppers.
Driving home with my canvas bags hooked precariously on my shoulders, I realized just how badly I need a basket on my bike. It's a danger zone. Also, I found myself singing a bit. A bit loudly, to be honest. Not, like, crazy person singing, just normal person singing. Some people whistle, some people sing, and some people don't know what they're missing. So, briefly, I was that weird girl on her bike with all the groceries, singing a Postal Service song.