USA. On Saturday mornings, a parking lot near my home becomes a VILLAGE, and I have been studying its lords. The farmers market. Tents rise at dawn. And beneath each tent: a specialist of absurd, magnificent depth. There is a man who sells ONLY honey. Forty kinds. I asked one polite question and received the complete doctrine of bees — their politics, their travels, their work ethic. "Better than ours," he ruled, and looked at me until I agreed. He had me taste spring honey against autumn honey from THE SAME BEES. They were different. I said so. "THANK you," he said, loudly, vindicated against enemies I could not see but absolutely believe in. Beside him: the tomato woman, whose tomatoes are lumpy, scarred, magnificent. "Ugly ones taste better," she declared. America, I nearly wept. In Japan, we have spent four centuries teaching that the crooked tea bowl outranks the perfect one. Wabi-sabi, we call it. Whole books. Tea masters. Museums. Your version is one woman at a folding table saying UGLY ONES TASTE BETTER, and she is COMPLETELY CORRECT, and the lesson costs three dollars a pound. I bought seven. And then there is the bread man. The bread man REMEMBERS. "How'd that sourdough treat you?" It treated me well, sir. "Told you. Try the rye." This is not commerce, America. This is SERIALIZED. Each Saturday continues the last, and skipping a week has consequences — I missed one, ONE, and the bread man said: "Thought we lost you." THOUGHT WE LOST YOU. I apologized like a soldier returning late from leave. He let me. Then he gave me an extra roll, which I understand now was both forgiveness and a warning. The supermarket sells the same foods, cheaper, in air conditioning, with no one watching your loyalty. The market sells the foods PLUS the lords of the foods. There is no contest. Saturdays, dawn, cash in envelope, as is proper. A man does not ask the bread man for forgiveness twice. He shows up Saturday. Dawn. Cash in envelope. This week, the honey man is bringing me something he calls "the buckwheat." His exact words: "Not everyone's ready for the buckwheat." I have trained all week, America. I will be ready for the buckwheat.