Along the roadside, these stands appear without warning — a table, a tin can for change, tomatoes, eggs, strawberries, peaches, sometimes packed in recycled plastic bags from the local grocery store. What you find there is never arbitrary: it's what that particular stretch of land, at that particular moment, has to offer. Soil, geography, and the day's weather shape the stand as much as the hand that built it.

Each image carries its own data: the farm's name if known, the year, the temperature, the price marked. Details that seem incidental today but, over time, become markers — a snapshot of the cost of living, here, at this moment.

Each stand is photographed according to the same protocol: frontal framing, consistent distance, fixed proportions — a typology that levels the hierarchy between subjects to let the vernacular architecture speak for itself. Slatted wood, corrugated tin, salvaged lumber, sometimes a simple awning, sometimes an elaborate shelter with a peaked roof and carefully lettered signage: each construction choice reveals a practical ingenuity — how to shield the goods from sun, rain, and wind with whatever's on hand.

These stands sometimes run on the honour system: no seller, no register — only the trust that each person will pay a fair price. In a world that makes food increasingly abstract, these stands are a reminder that it always has a precise origin, a season, a land that carried it.