The Reston Farm Market opened for the season today. It is two steps and a dandelion from my front door. Its stalls bulge with strawberries, croissants, basil, goat cheese, kosher meats, flowers, lettuces, pickles, Blue Grass pickers, political booths -  a swirl of sophistication, cultures, languages, Gucci bags, tropical tans, toned bodies and fat wallets.

While in PA two weeks ago, I stopped at a little roadside stand by an Old Order Mennonite farm and bought rhubarb, raw honey, sugar peas, and asparagus that oozed fresh cuts and crumbles of soil. The lady smiling at me wore a simple long dress, sleeves rolled up, large apron and head covering. We spoke of the spring morning , the birds singing around us and the smell of the fresh manure from the Amish fields.

I'm part of both worlds and grateful for each.

But by contrast, one was bare-bones real. And as pure as the iris unfolding by her gate.