From tiny to giant

Earlier this autumn someone posted pictures of  giant acorns  — perhaps two inches long.  Those would produce the standard northern oak tree.

Here, in Louisiana, we go for giant Live Oaks. They grow from tiny acorns, smaller than a popped popcorn kernel.  This is evidently a banner year for acorns, as the edge of the sidewalk was completely filled with them. DH and I were even being pelted by falling acorns as I took these pictures.

Hope you’re having a lovely fall.  The color is finally showing up in our trees.  Yippee!


Our New Farmer’s Market

The big city has had a farmer’s market for years.  It’s 16 miles of gas one way, and then the stalls are on the hot concrete of a blocked-off city street.  I’m told the big city charges the vendors a pretty penny for the privilege,  too.

Our small town has decided we’ve grown up enough to have our own market.  After all, many of the farmers are north of us, and have to drive through here to get to the big city market.  The city fathers promoted less hassle, lower fees, and the ability to park the vendor’s vehicles right at their booths. The market is on the grass at the Youth Park (think baseball venue), and the city furnishes one friendly policeman, there mainly to “show the colors”, and make sure no one gets an idea about relieving the vendors of their hard-earned cash.

From the very beginning it has been a big hit.  The first week there were only four vendors, and they sold everything they brought in the first hour.  Undaunted, people returned the next market day (2nd and 4th Saturdays), and bought out the market again!

This week the produce was less plentiful, as we are in the heat of the summer, and have lacked sufficient rain.  I brought home new potatoes, green onions, and yellow squash from this stand.

You don’t need an elaborate set-up, or even a canopy, as the market is set among mature trees.  This man sells melons on the side of the road, too, thus the sign with the arrow.

I got a real chuckle from this stand.  I suppose they are selling a delicacy, but I couldn’t help asking:  “Would that be eggs laid by pickled quails?”