I’m driving home from work this afternoon when I pass a sign for the Capitol Hill farmer’s market. Forget it, I tell myself. I’m too hungry and therefore too grumpy, and besides the market is just about over. But because these places exert a certain gravitational pull, I sigh and turn back down the hill. Parking doesn’t materialize and instantly I’m muttering to myself and planning a hasty exit. Then a spot opens up.

First thing I’m aware of is the fresh air, the cool sunshine. I remember how much I like this friendly little neighborhood market, where everybody can bring their dog if they like. I take note of the bouquets of pink tulips on offer for Mother’s Day. I linger over bags of spinach greens, bunches of red radishes, oyster mushrooms. There are giant pallid tomatoes from a greenhouse grower; they’re tantalizing, but feel like a sleight of hand. My pickings include a bundle of asparagus, and salted peanuts from Alvarez Farms, which I eat straight from the bag. By the time I’m back in the car and pointed homeward, my global outlook is back on track.