Linda takes Young-ja to the farmers market.

It is at the park on Saturday morning.

Farmers sell fresh vegetables, fruits, bread, and honey.

Young-ja asks a farmer, "Is this locally grown?"

"Yes! My farm is fifteen miles away. Picked this morning!"

Young-ja buys two pounds of tomatoes.

She also buys honey, bread, and eggs.

Her hands are full!

Linda laughs. "You bought the whole market!"

Young-ja smiles." Everything is so fresh!

Like a Korean traditional market — same feeling! "

Linda invites Young-ja to the farmers market on Saturday morning.

Young-ja has never been to one, but Linda explains:

local farmers sell fresh vegetables, fruits, bread, honey — everything grown nearby.

At the market, Young-ja's eyes light up. "Like a Korean 장터!"

At the first stall, she sees huge beautiful tomatoes.

She asks the farmer, "Is this locally grown?"

"My farm is fifteen miles from here. These were picked this morning — still warm from the sun."

Young-ja touches one. It really is warm.

She buys tomatoes, local honey, fresh bread, and eggs.

Her hands are completely full.

Linda laughs. "You bought the whole market!"

Young-ja says, "Everything is so fresh! Same feeling as Korean traditional markets."

Linda says, "Every Saturday, same place."

Young-ja says, "Then every Saturday, I'll be here."

Young-ja had been awake since seven, which was not unusual.

What was unusual was Linda knocking on her door at seven-thirty

with a canvas bag over each shoulder and the expression of someone with a plan.

"Farmers market? Saturday morning? You in?"

Young-ja had no idea what a farmers market was.

By the time Linda finished explaining — local farmers, fresh produce,

handmade bread, seasonal honey, flowers cut that morning — she was already reaching for her coat.

The market occupied one end of the park: two long rows of white canopy tents,

each one a different small farm or artisan.

The smell hit her first — earth and herbs and something baking.

영자가 멈췄다.

"Oh," she said quietly. "It's like a 장터."

"A what?"

"Traditional Korean market. Saturday mornings. Fresh everything. Loud and alive."

Linda smiled. "Exactly that."

Young-ja drifted toward the first stall, where tomatoes were stacked in careful pyramids —

fat, deeply red, some still with the vine attached.

The farmer, a weathered woman in a sun hat, looked up.

"Morning! Can I help you?"

Young-ja picked up a tomato and turned it over.

"Is this locally grown?"

"Everything on this table is from my farm — twelve miles east of here.

These tomatoes were picked at five this morning. "

Young-ja looked at the tomato in her hand.

It was still warm.

Not room temperature — warm. Sun-warm.

She hadn't held a sun-warm tomato since her own mother's garden in Korea.

"I'll take two pounds," she said, before she'd even thought about it.

She moved through the market methodically after that —

a jar of raw honey from a beekeeper who explained it helped with seasonal allergies,

a sourdough loaf from a young man who'd been baking since four a.m.,

a bundle of fresh herbs that smelled like every soup she'd ever made.

By the time she reached the far end, both hands were full.

Linda appeared beside her, slightly out of breath.

"Young-ja. You have bought the entire farmers market."

Young-ja looked at her bags. Then at the market.

"In Korea, I go to the 재래시장 every Saturday. My mother took me. Her mother took her.

You pick things up. You smell them. You talk to the person who grew them. "

She looked back at Linda.

"I didn't know America had this too."

"Every Saturday," Linda said. "Same place."

Young-ja shifted her bags.

"Then every Saturday, I will be here."

She meant it completely.