Every Saturday I am at the market with canvas bags and a list I will partially ignore. The kale guy knows my name. The honey lady knows I am trying to cut sugar and will not judge me for buying one jar anyway.
This is my crunchy life and I mean that in the wholesome way: whole foods, local growers, seasonal eating, the pleasure of washing lettuce that still has dirt on it because dirt means real. I am not performing wellness. I am living it in a parking lot that smells like basil.
I buy what looks alive. I plan two dinners and one brunch from whatever sings. Meal prep starts here, not in a sad plastic container on Sunday night—though we will get to Sunday night because I am not a fairy.
If you want a healthier week, start where the farmers stand in the sun and tell you how to roast their carrots. Your body notices. So does your guest list.