I've lived in San Diego for twenty years, but in my youth, in the '80's, I lived and worked near…read moreDC's Eastern Market.
I'd walk there most Sundays, buying breakfast from the man who made fried chicken and biscuits. Then I'd stop and visit with Mrs. Calomiris. I called her, "Mrs." because it wouldn't have occurred to me to call her "Maria," and "Mamma" never seemed to offer the respect I wished to convey.
She was smart and funny, and entertaining to watch as she gently promoted her customers into buying her beautiful produce. But most notably, Mrs. Calomiris was kind.
On more than one occasion, she held overripe tomatoes for me until she had a good basketful, then called me to pick them up. I'd blanch, peel and seed them, then make sauce. A cook herself, Mrs. Calomiris approved of this old-school approach, and so was happy to help. As she did for everyone, when I came to get my basket, she always handed me a banana or a nice apple, something for lagniappe.
And once, as I stood in front of Mrs. Calomiris' stall eating an apple she'd just sold me, she asked how it was; I said it wasn't bad, but that it wasn't quite ready, and that tiny woman reached up and took the apple from my hand as I was biting into it, in order to swap it for one that I'd like more.
My family is Arab, immigrants to the DC area in the late '50's, so the enthusiastic hospitality I always received from Mrs. Calomiris was familiar. Except for her accent, she might have been one of my aunts.
Maria Calomiris died of cancer in 2015, working at the Market until a few weeks before her death, having seen her husband, Chris, pass, just a few years earlier.
The community and the City are the worse for these losses. But even several thousand miles away, Mrs. Calomiris' memory endures.