End of summer slows Manhattan’s relentless pace.

Greenmarkets overflowing with produce grace the sidewalks of my neighborhood four days a week. Other days, I venture beyond walking distance just to stroll past the stalls, oogle the veggies, and hang out with the farmers.

Here in the concrete jumble, my family eats the same food the farmers’ families eat. Some of these farmers have been feeding my family for a quarter century.

I love that.

These small farms are not certified organic; that’s an expense only agribusiness can manage. These farmers are heart and soul wholesome, people who choose life close to the earth.

Market conversation adds its own pleasure. Jeff and I commiserate over lost artichokes, then he brings my attention to papalo, his words dripping with care, enthusiasm and humor.

Franca remembers we like romano beans and throws an extra handful into the bag. Pam alerts me the crème fraîche is nearly gone.

A mom notices my voice in the crowd and grabs my arm from behind. We hug and fill in the years. Our kids have grown but somehow we look the same.

Food, hugs and conversation intertwine in a nourishing trifecta.

For a few days, I too slow down to enjoy life’s harvest, pondering nothing more momentous than whether the Yankees can slide into another post season.