As I sucked on a honey stick and watched the judging of a pie-baking contest, I could faintly hear the sound of a fiddle. I had eluded the incessant fire truck sirens and the aggressive Locust Walk flyer distributors of West Philly; if I blocked out the faint smell of exhaust, I could've convinced myself that I was out of the city, rather than between 11th and 12th Streets at the Reading Terminal Market’s Harvest Festival.
The “Festival” did not consist of much: a few stalls selling baked goods, some hay underfoot, a display of precariously perched pumpkins and children on sugar highs running wild much to the dismay of their harried parents. Yet the smell of fresh apple cider doughnuts made me nostalgic for a rural childhood that I never had. The pie-baking contest had a particularly down-home appeal, with participants joking with each other while displaying creations like apple-cheddar-bacon pie (better seen than eaten).
Of course, it was impossible to fully escape the aura of Philadelphia. When a couple of midday drinkers exited a neighboring bar chanting “ASSHOLE! ASSHOLE!” distraught parents covered their kids’ ears, and I snapped out of my moment of artificial reminiscence. Perhaps next time I should actually leave the city limits to get a real rural experience, but sometimes the taste of foods like warm cider and soft pretzels can be just as rewarding.
