Carnivore on 9th Street

Imagine it's a few days before Easter (I'm a little behind on the blog)...
Sara (who, by the way, on days like this is my favorite person in the whole world, you'll see why in a second) decided to take the day off on Friday so we could all go to the Italian Market together (see? that's why). At the crack of 8:30 I roll out of bed with a smile on my face... imagining the glistening pastry counters, clattering baskets of crabs, rows of sopressata shimmering with sweat, freshly skinned goats staring blankly from butcher shop windows...
oh shit...
the goats...
Well, it's 8:31, and already I've hit a snag. How do I take Sam, who gets excited about seeing a squirrel and almost passes out at the mere mention of a farm, to my favorite place on earth, which just happens to be littered with meat... and not just meat, but meat still attached to the rest of the animal?
8:33 and I realize that Italian Market momentum cannot be stopped, and we'll just have to see what happens. So we're off, and in no time I'm parked in my favorite spot and we're strolling towards heaven. It's been a while, but everything comes flooding back in the first block. Brine and scales at the corner of Washington at Anastasi's Fish Market as they wash off fresh catch and toss packing ice onto the curb. Over-ripe tomatoes and bananas across the street in front of the gristled old man yelling HAMANNY at the top of his lungs over and over (took me about three years to realize he was saying "how many")... and best of all, rows of fiddleheads, mangos, onions and basil gently peppered by the year-round snowfall of ashes from produce boxes burning in oil drums. In a minute we're right in the heart of it, and Sam sees the first crab basket, the baby octopi, and stops to ask what the name of every fish is... Then it comes - the first window. Rows of sausages and four whole goats, hanging by their back legs waiting for Easter dinner.
"What are those?" he asks...
"Goats" I say.
"Hmm" he says, and we move on.
He is quiet, and seems to be considering it for a while, but after a block or so, starts up with his usual chatter. On we go, past Fante's and DiBruno's. Past the mortadella and provolone, olives and feta, whole rabbits and coiled rattlesnake meat, and tripe sandwiches wrapped in newspaper. Finally, right past Catherine street, we come to Sarcone's. For those of you who haven't been, I honestly feel sorry for you. Really. It's just sad. Sarcone's makes bread... but not just bread, some of the best bread in the universe. So good, in fact, that they have a system. Whenever you get there, they are out of bread, but there is a line out the door. Tourists and fools move on, but everyone in the know will wait, because every 10 minutes or so they come out with a fresh batch and 50 or so loaves are snatched up as the line lunges forward, and then the wait continues...
Bread in hand we're heading back up the street toward the butchers, and at the first one Sam says,"hey dad, a goat"... and that's it. Should I be happy? Sad? Hungry? Should my arms be completely numb? Wait a minute, what? Just in time, I'm saved from wrestling with any moral dilemma by the realization that my arms are completely numb. Thirty five pound Sam has been on my shoulders for about an hour, and along the way I've picked up nine pounds of tomatoes, four racks of lamb, four pounds of sausage, two bunches of cilantro & basil, and two pounds of octopus and one turnip - all of which are draped in plastic bags over my forearms as I'm holding on to Sam's feet. Luckily, his scissor grip around my neck has performed some Vulcan hand freeze on me, and although I lost all feeling and control over my hands, they seem to be locked around his ankles securely enough to make it the last two blocks to the car. With the application of some butter, we're able to slip his ankles out of my grip when we get to the car, and within ten minutes or so I'm able to move my pinky again.
Next stop, South Street for pizza, Famous Deli for cookies, window shopping at the tattoo parlors on 4th, and some cheap mexican toys from the Eyes Gallery that don't even last the whole ride home. Couldn't ask for a better day.