Farmers markets are capitalism in its purest form.
I’ve thought this every year for the 13 years that my farmer husband has sold his produce at the open-air markets that have become staples of summer.
Yesterday - week two of selling at our local market - was no different.
The market is open from 10 to 1. I arrived late. I entered Pete’s stall at 10:45.
“How’s it going?” I asked. “Not good,” Pete said. “I haven’t sold one head of lettuce. Not one.”
Bad news, indeed. I knew Pete had arrived with about 50 or 60 heads of butter crunch, romaine and iceberg lettuce that he had harvested the afternoon before, along with blueberries, strawberries, honey from the neighborhood beekeeper, kale, arugula and other early produce. Yet the lettuce heads weren’t moving. Large, gorgeous and - like all his crops - free of any sprays or pesticide, nonetheless, they weren’t selling. Some were on display and the rest were in coolers, laden with ice to keep them fresh in the heat and humidity.
This is where the rules of capitalism and sales kick in.
First, we reduced the price, from a reasonable $3 to a bargain-basement $2 a head. The last thing you want is to have too much left over at closing time. Better to sell it at any price. Anything is better than zero, which is what we would get if we brought the lettuce home.
Next, I began to do my best imitation of a childhood friend, who I think about during every market.
Chris was my sister Claudia’s pal. She was raised by her grandparents a block away and was in and out of our house every day. Her grandparents made their Social Security checks stretch to raise her, somehow coming up with the money to pay for her to attend a girls’ Catholic high school blocks away.
Chris always struggled in school, but there was one area in which she excelled. She was born to sell.
And she did. Every year, the parochial school raised money by selling candy bars, with prizes going to those who sold the most. And every year, in the entire school, Chris was No. 1.
I watched her technique one day, slack-jawed with wonder. She would stake her territory outside the local bank, but she would never think of getting a table and a chair and sitting down. Nope, that wasn’t her style. She would approach people, mostly men, waving her candy bars.
I can sell because I spent so long as a journalist that it made me an extrovert.
“Sir! Sir!” She would yell. “THIS IS YOUR LUCKY DAY!” And she would launch into her pitch, which changed depending on the individual. Some men would try to flee, but she would run after them, infused with the joy of the sale and the chase. Nothing discouraged her, nothing slowed her down, until Chris sold every last one of her candy bars.
It was awesome.
So, during every farmers market I channel Chris’ example. Yesterday was no different. “Fire sale on lettuce! Look at these gorgeous babies - picked 18 hours ago and nothing’s been on them but rain!” I began. Like Chris, I try to engage every customer, which is not only fun, but works, although I draw a line at actually chasing them.
I can also get away with complimenting female shoppers, which men can only do at their peril.
“What a beautiful blouse that is! Bet it keeps you cool on a hot day like today,” I’ll say to perfect strangers. “Hey, not that you need to eat salad at all, but check out these greens that my exhausted husband picked yesterday!”
In two hours, the threatened lettuce calamity was over. We had sold all but about four heads, which we could eat or give away to neighbors. The coolers Pete had packed that morning were largely empty. That’s another thing about farmers markets - it’s easier to pack up empty coolers and bushel baskets than do the morning chores of loading the truck with folding tables, boxes of produce, a tent, and setting up before the customers arrive.
The goal is always to have the bushel baskets and coolers empty at the end of the day, which assumes you sell everything, or nearly everything, you arrive with. That capitalism thing again.
I wish I knew what happened to Chris. I know that her school was particularly narrow-minded and encouraged their female students to become teachers, nuns or nurses, period. I would like to think that would not happen today. Yet somebody should have taken her aside and told her that selling was her gift.
I’ve discovered in my dotage that I can sell, too, but I have a career in journalism to thank for that. It made me an extrovert, but so far, I would almost always rather write than hawk vegetables.
Until there is a crisis, of course. Lettuce, anyone?
Good job, Maura. Both the selling and the writing.
What a wonderful account of your sales efforts at the farmers market. What I wouldn't give for a wedge salad made from a head of that fresh iceberg. Blue cheese dressing, crumbled bacon, with diced fresh tomatoes, nom. Reminds me of selling my shelling peas and yellow beans at the Trumansburg Farmers Market back in the late 90s. I can appreciate all your husband's hard work and how $3 a head is not enough. You're a natural at selling the truth!