"Oh no. Chelsea, your place is closed!" A sudden crank of the head to behold a vacated storefront. Momentary disappointment in what would be an altogether delightful and upbeat trip to Pike Place Market with friends. Behold the cartoon lightbulb that pops above my head. "Wait a second, no, no, I called them two hours ago to ask if they take debit." False alarm! My eyes recognize the sign suspended from concrete rafters. Piroshky Piroshky. A few steps closer and the faint whisper of sweetness and spice grow more aromatic. Resultantly, my stomach has also grown a little bit hungrier. Halt.
Rows among rows of dough speckled with edible treasures entice me, while the warmth of hot ovens and the scent of sweet bread, cinnamon, and cardamon gently lure me into this tiny space that practically pushes me and the hoard of eager customers up against the glass case. There are so many choices, and being of an indecisive nature I learn to go with gut and tradition. "One rhubarb piroshky please." It's still warm. I gently pull it out of the paper bag, revealing a light dusting of powdered sugar, which is now all over my fingers. Starting to eat it rather quickly, I recall my favorite books and slow it down. I was charmed by little girls living in New York City during the first decade of the 20th century. They were poor, yet enchanted by the simple pleasure of making the delicious tang of a dill pickle last as long as they could while bartering for deals for Mama on market day. I too must make my little pie oozing with custard and soft rhubarb last for as long as I can.
There are shouting vendors all along the way, each claiming to have the most flavorful Pink Ladies, the freshest salmon, or the best organic goat cheese. Cobblestones are uneven beneath my feet, and aged lampposts line the way. Whether I am in 21st century Seattle or early 20th century Brooklyn I cannot be quite sure. My mind has run away with fanciful illusions of an age more golden than this; a time when joy in simplicity was key to happiness and necessity was the mother of invention. I need not wish to have been there, because my imagination can take me there at any time.
Rows among rows of dough speckled with edible treasures entice me, while the warmth of hot ovens and the scent of sweet bread, cinnamon, and cardamon gently lure me into this tiny space that practically pushes me and the hoard of eager customers up against the glass case. There are so many choices, and being of an indecisive nature I learn to go with gut and tradition. "One rhubarb piroshky please." It's still warm. I gently pull it out of the paper bag, revealing a light dusting of powdered sugar, which is now all over my fingers. Starting to eat it rather quickly, I recall my favorite books and slow it down. I was charmed by little girls living in New York City during the first decade of the 20th century. They were poor, yet enchanted by the simple pleasure of making the delicious tang of a dill pickle last as long as they could while bartering for deals for Mama on market day. I too must make my little pie oozing with custard and soft rhubarb last for as long as I can.
There are shouting vendors all along the way, each claiming to have the most flavorful Pink Ladies, the freshest salmon, or the best organic goat cheese. Cobblestones are uneven beneath my feet, and aged lampposts line the way. Whether I am in 21st century Seattle or early 20th century Brooklyn I cannot be quite sure. My mind has run away with fanciful illusions of an age more golden than this; a time when joy in simplicity was key to happiness and necessity was the mother of invention. I need not wish to have been there, because my imagination can take me there at any time.
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