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Michelle Obama + the farmers market!

September 18, 2009

 

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Thursday, my friends, was a good day.  I can’t say exactly why, mostly because I don’t want to jinx myself and Nate, primarily.

But I will tell you this: Thursdaywas the first day of a brand new farmers market that is literally a block from work!  It was a hotly disputed issue because a farmers market in the middle of DC on a weekday necessitates street closures during the middle of rush hour, rerouting of buses, etc.  However, once “they” started throwing around the notion that Michelle Obama wanted the farmers market, it had to be so.

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Whatevs, I’m not complaining– you know I don’t drive in this god-forsaken city.  And part of me thinks that the people who drive should be punished since they could all be taking the metro.  The metro has become my bff, although it’s a love/hate relationship (usually more hate than love, although things might be on the upswing).  Plus, a farmers market during the week?  What a great idea!  Plus, it’s a block away.

Wait, did I mention that already?  Sorry, I just can’t get over the awesomeness of it all.

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I purposefully didn’t pack lunch on Thursday because I knew I’d be able to get my hands on something tasty at the market (pastries for lunch?  Don’t judge me). Which, unfortunately, meant I starved myself until 3 pm rolled around.  At about 2 pm my stomach started rumbling and I started thinking “You should just go downstairs and get a cookie to tide yourself over.”  But then I also thought “Don’t do it!  You should save yourself for the farmers market!”

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In a rare turn of events, I actually waited for the farmers market to eat lunch, and what a lunch it was.  It made the 2 hours of stomach-rumbling worth it (you can only drink so much water before your stomach demands an end to the nutritionless sham).

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I had no idea what a big deal this farmers market was.  There were people watching the to-do out their office windows. There was a security checkpoint.  There were cops standing on top of trucks with machine guns.  There were Secret Service men in trench coats with curly plastic hanging out of their ears.  There was Michelle Obama.

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I’ve never really gotten what the big deal is with Michelle Obama.  I mean, yeah, she’s the president’s wife, she has impeccable fashion sense, she’s tall and pretty, and her kids and dog are cute.  But besides that, eh, so whatDSC_0040

Let me tell you what, folks, I am now a convert.  She talked about how when they lived in Chicago they ate a lot of fast food to keep the kids from whining (“We just wanted to stop the whining!”), how she never thought she’d see so many people excited about vegetables, and she tied the whole eating-fresh-food thing into the need for better health care really well in a non-political kind of way.  She’s just a normal person, who talks like a normal person (unlike her husband who talks like a president, since he’s, well, the president) and does normal-person things, like go to a farmers market.  Plus I got to go back to my office and tell everyone that I just saw Michelle Obama give a speech at the farmers market.  How cool is that?


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The only bad thing is that I went to the market planning on taking pictures of fruit and veggies.  No need for an automatic focus or a zoom.  But then Michelle Obama showed up and my plans changed.  I hope you’ll forgive my blurry photos because it’s hard to take a focused picture when I’m holding the manual-focus camera above my head just praying to get the right person’s face in the photo.

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The excitement was palpable, the produce was colorful and glistening in the rain, the pastries were flaky and this is definitelygoing to be a weekly thing for me.  Hurray, DC!

Oh, and have you voted in the poll yet?  This is your chance to decide what kind of brownies I make next (which may seem insignificant, but it’s not.  I told Nate I was planning on taking the next batch to work and he threatened to not give me anything for my birthday).  So far Nate is the only person that’s voted and he doesn’t really count because I’d get his opinion anyway. 

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