It's late Monday night.  I'm sitting here with my baby-carrier strapped across my chest, waiting to jump up and bail out my wife in case Dylan, our six-week-old gets squirrelly and needs some time in the Magical Carrier of Comfort (this thing really is Magical:  it's called the Moby, and it's not only a hands-free baby carrier, it's been, so far, a fail-safe baby-comforting device.  If you're expecting or attending a baby shower or have an infant, get one).

I got home lateish from training today, and was hungry, so after checking on the family and strapping on the Moby in the event of a babe-mergency, I tucked into a rather indulgent snack and started contemplating what to write about for tomorrow's blog.

As I tore off one of the legs of the whole rotisserie chicken in front of me, I thought, "hmmm, maybe something on the latest study in the Journal of Strength and Conditioning Research?" 

Attempting to snap a bone in half with my canines to suck out some marrow, I dismissed the idea, but wondered,  "Perhaps a piece about the pros and cons of different periodization models?"

I flipped the bird over and literally plowed my entire head into the bird's back in search of undiscovered morsels.  Little pieces of chicken flew across the room, onto the floor, into my hair as I went at that chicken like Mr. Peepers eating an apple.

"Maybe a nice little ditty on tennis elbow or injuries one incurs playing croquet?"

There was now nothing left but chicken skeleton.  I was breathing heavily from battle.  Marinade glistened on my face.  My fingernails were black with herbs and spices.  My chest heaved from the satisfaction.  It had been me or the chicken, and I'd prevailed. 

I quaffed a huge mouthful of protein shake.

More beast than man now, had either of my children seen me, they would have attacked me with their tiny fists, screaming "What have you done with my Daddy??  Only decades of therapy could have hoped to erase the image from their minds. 

Startled by my own reflection in the dining room window, I realized I had to talk about the chicken.

The fact is that this chicken came from a local farmer's market, and was truly astounding.  They guy who sold it to me (perhaps the fabled chicken man from Sprinsteen's "Atlantic City?"  Perhaps a relation, on second thought, because, as everybody knows, they blew him up) "You barely need teeth to eat it," an odd sentiment, since I have all 32 of mine, thanks, but nonetheless true:  it was melt-in-your-mouth good.

The produce, some of which I threw into my protein shake, was also astounding. 

When I was diving into that chicken with all fours, I quite literally said a Hallelujah for the farmer's market, because a weekly trip to your local farmer's market not only supports the local economy, it's good for your health, too.  You're buying fresh, local, organic stuff, usually at a small fraction of what you'd pay at a grocery chain.  You're stocking up for the week, getting good stuff to take home and feed yourself and your family.  Plus you're outdoors, out amongst your community!  Yup, those are your people, Freckles!  

I don't hate Whole Foods and other high-end, organic grocery stores, but I do think those places thrive on guilt.  Free-range chickens are great, but how about free-range GRAIN FED?  And how about free-range grain-fed HORMONE-FREE?  How about free-range grain-fed hormone-free COLLEGE EDUCATED, for Pete's sake?  Pay more to absolve yourself of more guilt.  I'm never quite happy shopping there.  I feel like a nonbeliever in church.

I may shop there--reluctantly--for convenience sometimes, but my heart is at the farmer's market. I'm a lot happier there.  And I bet you would be too. 

A