For most of my adult life, procuring groceries had been a mundane task, best accomplished with maximum efficiency. A busy life affords little opportunity for lollygagging in supermarket aisles.

In the early weeks of the pandemic, the need to be strategic about food buying was amplified to new extremes. Now we would shop just once a week, at only one store, sending in one masked representative. While inside, I would give other shoppers a wide berth, avoid conversations and get out as quickly as possible.

Submitting an online order and pulling into the parking lot for curbside pickup became my norm. Weary store employees would wheel my purchases outside and place them directly into my trunk so I could stay snug in my automotive isolation chamber, protected from airborne particles and human connection.

I became accustomed to this sanitized, optimized shopping experience. Then, when my family relocated after years in an urban neighborhood to a small town an hour south, our shopping habits drastically changed.

On a Saturday morning in late May, more or less on a lark, we loaded the kids into the car and drove 50 miles out of the city and through rural farmlands to reach a petite chalet that had captured my husband’s eye.

This house, this town, was his dream, not mine. I had vetoed the idea right out of the gate — based on the listing photos, the house looked darling but was far too small. It had a poor floor plan for our family’s needs and was farther from the city than I had anticipated going. But after more than three months of isolation, I was longing for a weekend adventure. I relented, agreeing to see the property.

I never considered this would result in uprooting my life. It just seemed like a fun excuse to leave the house for once. I figured we’d get a pleasant day trip out of it, peek at the house, rule it out and return home, unharmed and unchanged.

As we crawled up to the peak of the long, private driveway and the property came into view, a hush fell over the car, and I sensed something spiritual happening in my often-understated husband. He was entranced.

“Uh oh,” I thought. This means trouble.

We explored the house and the property, which was every bit as charming as the photos suggested — and every bit as small and impractical for a family of four. Nevertheless, it was clear that he was in love.

My mind swirled with objections. There were just two tiny bedrooms with no actual closets. How would our growing girls fit in the microscopic room they would have to share? Where would we even put our clothes? Where would guests sleep? How would my husband and I find enough quiet work-from-home space?

It was a totally ridiculous, absurd idea. But my 8-year-old was describing the cottage as “enchanted” and both girls had spotted deer roaming in the field above the house. They were begging to live here. My husband looked at me with big brown puppy dog eyes. I groaned inwardly.

After walking through it, we meandered through the neighborhood to a small farmers market set up in a church parking lot just a few blocks away. Within minutes we had scored vegan pastries and a couple of pints of coveted strawberries. We plopped down in the grass in a small park across the street from the market, just a few yards away from a young man busking with an acoustic guitar.

And right there on that little patch of grass, something unexpectedly shifted inside me. I’m not sure if it was the house, the strawberries or the sounds of the busker’s voice drifting across the park, but I felt my soul settle.

In a mysterious instant, all my objections and reservations about this hare-brained moving scheme melted away. At that precise moment, I could see it — I could imagine our life here. It felt peaceful, gentle and good.

Surprising even myself, I looked up at my husband and caught his eye, smiled, and nodded. “Yes,” I said quietly, answering a question that had not been asked out loud.

“Yes?!” he answered, stunned and delighted.

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

So here I am, more than two years later, a member of this tight-knit community. Online ordering and curbside pickup are a vestige of my past life. Now, my favorite morning of the week is Saturday, when I walk down our long, private driveway with an empty basket slung over my arm, en route to the farmer’s market.

There is still some strategy involved. From late spring through summer, I visit the berry stand first, just after the market opens at 9 a.m., to make sure I get some prized berries before they sell out, then snag a big loaf of limited-edition chewy sourdough from the bakery stall.

Urgent tasks accomplished, I am now free to take a long and leisurely stroll through all three vegetable stands, chatting with the farmers, admiring little butternut squash and striped heirloom tomatoes, asking whether there will still be basil next week, crowdsourcing ideas for preparing shishito peppers and maybe choosing a bouquet of zinnias, dahlias and sunflowers to take home if the mood strikes. Invariably, I overbuy — and I have no regrets.

This past Saturday’s vegetable haul included petite red onions and cucumbers from Jordan and Jay’s organic farm. Jordan and I chatted while our girls, who are kindergarten classmates, played together in the parking lot and bought honey sticks from the local beekeeper.

Then I gathered cherry tomatoes, kale, salad greens and bell peppers from a farmer, who I am pretty sure is a shirttail relative of mine, and from whom I bought 50 pounds of tomatoes earlier in the summer for marinara.

Finally, I bought a bright green bunch of celery from our friend’s farm — not because I needed it but because he was so proud of how robust and juicy it was. Buying it just seemed like the right thing to do. Bunches of cilantro and basil, too.

To this rainbow of lovely vegetables, I added two pints of crimson strawberries somehow still growing in September, the requisite crusty bread and fresh pastries for our overnight houseguests. My market basket overflowed. I awkwardly muddled my way home with both arms full.

As I walked, with full arms and a full heart, I dreamt about what my family would eat that night: homemade margherita pizza with perfect tomatoes and pungent basil, a salad of baby lettuces, sweet red onion, carrots and cucumbers.

Beautiful, nourishing foods grown by our friends and neighbors, sold to us by familiar faces, exchanged in the open air with warm smiles.