“Everything in moderation, including moderation.” — Julia Child

I’ve been a fool.

Today, I was downtown; I stopped by the Strand and ogled, got some coffee, and successfully bought various bits of dairy (mozzarella, creme fraiche, grana padano) and meats (prosciutto), some pretty multicolored lentils, and a Thai chile pepper at the Union Square Whole Foods for just above my budget; eleven dollars, total.

I am that responsible mom: I calculate by weight per pound, I compare, I eyeball and consider, I compromise, I do the math for how much I’m paying for a single ingredient per meal. I get the best deal. I’m getting really good at this.

Excepting, of course, that I’m a fool.

Clearly, I was in Union Square, today. It’s Saturday. So, I steeled myself for my exit into the market— not nearly well enough, it would seem. I haven’t been to the Union Square farmer’s market since late winter, and my heart nearly exploded. I felt like crying, because I had already done my weekly shopping, and you should have seen these carrots.

The Union Square market overwhelms me, to be certain; I like the modesty of the Columbia Market; I already know whose greens are best there, whose eggs and apples. Yet: seeing the former market today in full bloom, I realized it’s like a lovely supermarket— at least for me; it has absolutely everything I could want or need. Everything. I could make a list beforehand and find it all there. Check ‘em off one by one. And I know that’s not the strategy that I said I was taking henceforth; it’s not the strategy chefs use or what have you. But seeing what’s good once you’re there works well enough for navigating through the dregs of winter; it works fine if you have the resources to buy based purely on rosiness— rather than, that is, based upon what looks great, but is also cheap and you know you’ll find utterly satisfying.

Making a list beforehand, in short, is essential to budgeting.

Also: it’s convenient, in a sense, to stop by the Columbia Market on my way to work, but convenience is not the point of shopping at the market; the very point is to take your time, peruse and prod and reflect. I feel that Saturday may once more become a market day, every now and then.

I am eschewing one form of moderation for another; I’m going to learn my way around that downtown Garden of Eden, and leisurely stroll among the jewel-bright produce; the list will be checked off, carrot-salads will be made.

I feel swell.