by Dana Bate
“Other farmers’ markets—Dupont, Penn Quarter, Annapolis, Crystal City.”
“Any retail shops?”
“Nah. We do a little wholesale here and there. But that’s about it.”
“Have you ever thought of opening your own store?”
“Too much overhead. Don’t need the hassle.” He stacks two crates on top of one another and toddles through the snow to the truck.
“I wonder if one of the specialty markets around here would be interested in selling some of your stuff. I bet—”
“You aren’t here to bet,” he says, heaving the crates onto the truck. “You’re here to help me pack up this truck, and at this rate, we’ll be here until September.”
“Sorry.”
“They always are . . .”
I help Rick finish loading the truck and fold up the tables and tent, and as I gather my things together and prepare to leave, Rick digs into his pocket.
“Normally I pay a hundred dollars a market, but since this is your first day, and we didn’t do much business, I’m only giving you sixty.” He reaches for a paper bag. “Oh, and here are two loaves of walnut spelt bread. Those puppies didn’t move for anything today.”
Great. First I lose my job, and now this guy wants to pay me in leftover bread. Newsflash: Flour and yeast will not pay my electricity bill.
“I could use some extra help around the holidays, though,” he says. “If you help at Penn Quarter and Dupont this week, I’ll give you the standard hundred per market, plus the extra forty I owe you from today.”
I clear my throat. When it comes to getting a job in the food world, working for a lunatic for three hundred dollars a week isn’t exactly what I had in mind. “Um . . . well . . .”
“Hey—if you don’t need the money, that’s fine by me. I’ll find someone who does.” He turns and throws his cashbox onto the passenger seat of the truck and then walks around the truck to the driver’s side.
I curse myself for what I’m about to do and scurry after him. “Wait.”
I don’t want to work for a chauvinistic misanthrope for, quite literally, crumbs. But I’m no fool. Three hundred dollars is better than zero dollars, and at this point, other than my severance, zero dollars is what I am currently making. I’m still playing catch-up from my oral surgery boondoggle, and my severance won’t last long enough to keep me in that apartment for more than a month or so. My parents are dealing with their own financial strains, so I can’t ask them for help. I could definitely use the extra cash, at least as a temporary stopgap.
“I’m in,” I say. “I’ll see you on Thursday at Penn Quarter.”
Rick sticks a cigarette in his mouth and lights it with a bright purple lighter. “Good. But you’d better not be late, or you’re finished. Got it?”
I nod. Rick lets out a grunt and heaves himself into the driver’s seat. He slams the creaky door and fires up the motor, which sputters as he lowers his window.
“One freaking thirty,” he says, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “And not a minute later.”
“Got it.”
“And next time you see your blond friend, tell her she’d better get her ass here on time too.” He steps on the brake and pulls the truck into gear. “I don’t need this bullshit.”
Then he raises the window, steps on the gas, and jerks the truck down Twenty-third Street.
CHAPTER 8
Here’s a little truth bomb: I don’t need this bullshit either. What I need is a real job that pays more than three hundred dollars a week and doesn’t entail interacting with a chain-smoking lunatic who verbally molests every female he encounters.
Unfortunately, such a job eludes me. Christmas and New Year’s pass, as does all of January, and all I have to show for it is some under-the-table cash from Rick the Prick and some new croissant-induced cellulite on my thighs. Everyone assured me no one hired around the holidays, so I understood when New Year’s came and went without any employment leads. But apparently no one is hiring after the holidays either, because now it’s February, and I still don’t have a job. Everyone has said the same thing, more or less:
“No open positions right now.”
“Not hiring.”
“Budget cuts.”
“Looking for someone with more relevant experience.”
Now nearly two months have passed since I lost my job at The Morning Show, and I’m basically in the same position I was on that snowy morning when Heidi got food poisoning, only now I’m well-versed in Rick’s panoply of baked goods and their corresponding price structure. Baby steps?
If there is a small silver lining to my continued unemployment, it is that I have increased my hours at the farmers’ market, where I am surrounded by people who love growing and making food as much as I love eating, reading, and writing about it. Every market brings with it a new sensory adventure: the toothsome crunch of Rick’s millet muffins, the brazen tang of his sourdough, the sharp and herbaceous scent of his cheddar dill scones. Instead of trying to force a food connection like I did at The Morning Show, I now live and breathe an agricultural smorgasbord on an almost daily basis, poring over luscious apples and lumpy, bumpy squash and fat loaves of buttery brioche. In a strange way, despite the meager pay, I finally feel as if I’m where I belong.
Another upside of working at the market is that I’ve been able to spend more time with Heidi, whom I rarely saw while I worked at The Morning Show. For four years, we maintained nearly opposite schedules: I was usually up before sunrise and in bed by nine or ten, and she didn’t get to work until 10:00 a.m. and was out until at least eleven at night. We did our best to meet up, but I was so tired by dinnertime that I frequently bailed on our happy hour and dinner dates, and on weekends she was usually tied up with farmers’ market work and get-togethers with her knitting group. But now we catch up between sales and sneak nibbles of chocolate chip cookies together and fall into the familiar comfort of our friendship.
On the first Saturday in February, Heidi’s is the first face I see as I cross Twenty-third Street and approach the market, which at 7:20 is already filled with colorful tents and crates of pastries and produce. I’ve arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule to spare myself Rick’s wrath, but unfortunately, despite my miraculous timing and punctuality, I have still managed to arrive after him. I am convinced he shows up five minutes earlier each market just to torture me.
“Come along, slowpoke!” he yells as I make my way toward the truck. “This tent isn’t going to pitch itself.”
I toss my bag onto the front seat of the truck and, with Heidi’s help, Rick and I pitch the tent over the triangular patch of grass just behind the dirt walking path, before the lawn descends into the vast grassy expanse of the park below. Rick and I pull in opposite directions, hoisting the red-and-white checkered canopy across our allotted space while Heidi snaps the legs into place.
Once we’ve secured the tent and set up the tables, Heidi starts unloading the bread off the truck, and I arrange the baskets along the table, lining each one with a cloth napkin. Rick sidles up next to me, surveying my work with narrowed eyes as he tucks his shirt into his baggy trousers. “Make sure you put the croissants in one of these big rectangular baskets, okay?”
“Got it.”
He looks over his shoulder and spots Heidi unloading a crate of baguettes. “Sweet Jesus—would you help her unload those baguettes before she drops them all in the mud? Help me, Lord, for I’m surrounded by morons.”
I rush to the back of the truck and help Heidi with the baguettes. “Thanks,” she says, dusting off her hands on her jeans as she hops down. Specks of flour cover her puffy olive-colored coat, and she follows me beneath the tent to begin filling the baskets. “So what’s the latest on the job search? Any leads?”
“None. At this point I’m applying to anything that will pay me.”
“You’ve added ‘high-end escort’ to the list, then?”
I whack her arm with the lid to the cheddar dill scones. “
I haven’t, actually. Maybe I should.”
“Are you kidding? You’re way too uptight. One mention of handcuffs, and you’d be all, ‘You want me to do what?’ ”
“Touché.” I start arranging the scones in a wicker basket lined with a baby blue napkin. “I’m just so sick of sending out resumes and meeting for ‘informational interviews,’ you know? This whole process is eating away at my soul.”
“Have you asked Rick about adding more days to your schedule? At least until you find something more permanent.”
“I’m already working every winter market he does. Which, frankly, is about all the Rick I can handle right now.”
“I’ll ask around and see if any friends have leads. We’ll find something.”
“Thanks. I’m running out of ideas.”
The chilled February air nips at my nose as I finish unloading the scones and place the signs in front of the various baskets and crates: seeded rye, peanut butter cookies, cinnamon raisin bread. The smell beneath the tent is intoxicating, a combination of sweet butter, yeast, and toasted flour.
“By the way,” Heidi says as the opening bell rings, “did you realize people are still commenting on your blog? You haven’t updated that thing in more than four years, but I stopped by the other day, and there are tons of recent comments.”
“Yeah, I get e-mails whenever someone writes in. I’m shocked anyone still reads it.”
“You should start blogging again. You certainly have the time these days.”
“Oh, sure—devoting more of my time to yet another enterprise that doesn’t pay. Great idea.”
“At least it would get your mind off the job search for an hour or two. And you write about food so well. If you’re trying to get your foot in the food-writing door, maybe the blog could help. It certainly couldn’t hurt.”
“I guess. I’ll think about it.”
“Ladies, enough with the yammering,” Rick says, jabbing me in the side. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a line ten customers deep. Let’s get to work.”
I rub my hands together and wait on the first customer I see, who orders a loaf of chocolate chunk brioche and two millet muffins. I’m getting better at handling the crowds with each passing week, but I still haven’t mastered the art of customer service. Somehow working at my fastest still doesn’t seem fast enough, and every time someone makes a snide or impatient remark, I have fantasies of chucking a muffin in his or her face. I’ve never followed through, but that has less to do with my self-control and more with my complete lack of coordination and aim.
Baked goods and money fly across the table all morning—“Next please!” “What can I get you?” “Anything else for you today?”—and I try to ignore the people who slowly count their change in front of me, as if I am a lowly farm girl and therefore could not possibly do math properly in my head. To be fair, I couldn’t find my hat this morning and had to buy a cheap one en route, and I ended up with a Washington Redskins hat that, aside from being two sizes too large and made of some sort of highly flammable furry material, resembles a wizard’s cap, with a droopy pointed top festooned with a large yellow pompom. I can’t really fault people for thinking I’m a little slow.
About an hour before the market closes, Drew, the model-cum-lumberjack I met on my first day, stops by our tent, a large red crate filled with apples resting on his forearms.
“Hello, ladies,” he says, resting it on the edge of our table. “I come bearing gifts.”
“Oh, Drew, your mere presence is gift enough,” Heidi says.
“In that case . . .” He pulls the crate off the table.
“Not so fast.” I reach out and draw the apples closer to me, rooting through the basket. “What exactly do we have here?”
“Ah, so apparently my presence isn’t enough for some people at this stand.”
“Your presence isn’t going to feed my empty refrigerator and bank account,” I say.
“Fair enough.” He reaches into the crate and pulls out an apple with rough gold-and-brown skin. “A few different kinds of apples here. This one is a Goldrush. Kind of like a Golden Delicious but with a bit more acid. It keeps pretty well.”
I pick up another from the heap. “And this one?”
Drew reaches out and delicately takes the apple from my hand. “This is a Smokehouse, an antique Pennsylvania Dutch variety. You can pretty much use it for anything—pies, cooking, sauce. It tastes like fresh cider. Really good. So are the Mutsus and Pink Ladies.”
“And these are all for us?” I ask.
“Sure. In exchange for some bread and muffins—assuming you get the okay from Rick.”
At the mention of his name, Rick trundles over to our corner of the tent. “What’s going on over here? We still have forty-five minutes left. This isn’t playtime.”
“Maggie and I were hoping to do a little swap,” Drew says. “Some apples for some of your olive bread and millet muffins. What do you think?”
“You know I can’t resist Maggie’s apples.” He winks. “And her fruit ain’t half-bad either.” He waves Drew over to the truck. “Come on. I’ll hook you up with a bag of goodies.”
Drew follows Rick over to the truck, and they disappear behind the loading area.
“So Drew is pretty hot, huh?” Heidi says.
“He is definitely easy on the eyes.”
“And very sweet. You should go for a drink with him.”
“Me?”
“No, the other Sydney.”
“You’re the one who should go for a drink with him. You were like a dog in heat as soon as he came over.”
Heidi cackles. “Been there, done that.”
“Oh, so I get your sloppy seconds? No, thanks.”
“He isn’t my sloppy seconds. We went on one date, had a drunken smooch, and realized it would never work out between us, so we’re just friends. But he’s a sweetheart. I think you’d like him.”
“Maybe. Mentally I’m not really in a place to date right now.”
Heidi moans. “Because of Zach? That was years ago, Sydney. We’ve been over this. It’s time to move on.”
“It isn’t because of Zach,” I say, even though we both know it is. “I should be devoting my mental energies to finding a job, not to finding my way into someone’s bed.”
“Whatever. Just promise you’ll think about it. We could go on a double date. It would be really low-key.”
“Okay. I’ll think about it.”
Drew and Rick emerge from behind the truck, and Drew hands me and Heidi a white plastic bag filled with apples. “Enjoy, ladies,” he says with a smile. Then he turns to me. “It’s Sydney, right?”
I nod.
“Great seeing you again,” he says. “You’ll have to let me know what you think of the Smokehouses next time you see me—which I hope will be soon?”
“Sure. I’m here every weekend.”
Heidi clears her throat as if she is about to say something, but I kick her beneath the table.
“Cool,” Drew says. “I’ll see you next weekend, then.”
He grabs his brown bag filled with bread and pastries and turns to leave, then turns back quickly, as if he has forgotten something. His big brown eyes run up and down my face and land on the top of my head. He breaks into a broad smile. “By the way,” he says, “sweet hat.”
When I get back to my apartment that afternoon, I flip open my laptop and log on to A Perpetual Feast, the food blog I started freshman year of college. It was a mix of personal essays, recipes, and trend reporting, an extension of the column I began in high school while working on the school paper. I’d worked on the paper for four years at that point, but once we were high school seniors, Zach encouraged me to start a food column, and with his help, I launched “Zest,” which ran articles on everything from our cafeteria food to restaurants around town. One of my first pieces blasted our cafeteria staff and launched an investigation into their hygienic practices after I found a dirty bandage and a fingernail in my baked b
eans. The column won a local award and compelled our school board to strengthen their health and safety rules, and I’m pretty sure the story helped me get into college.
Once I got to Northwestern, though, the competition was steep, and I couldn’t convince the editors of The Daily Northwestern or the producers of the Northwestern News Network to make me the resident food journalist. So instead, I created my own food blog. At first, I didn’t have many readers, but within a few months, my audience ballooned, and by my junior year, I was able to leverage my clout as a food blogger to produce my own weekly food show on NNN. Even with all of that experience, I still couldn’t land a paying job as a food journalist after college, but I kept up the blog for a few months after graduation anyway. I still enjoyed writing about food, but if I’m being honest, I also saw the blog as an extension of my high school column and therefore an extension of Zach. Keeping up the site made me feel close to him, even once we’d broken up and I knew he wasn’t reading it anymore.
As I scan my site today, I see the most recent post is dated four years ago, a week before I started at The Morning Show. I reread the first sentence:
Few things will make you feel as lonely as the
sound of a place setting being cleared at a table set
for two.
The post goes on to detail the art of eating alone, of finding peace at a table for one. It reads like a piece of post-breakup therapy, even though I’d written it six months after Zach and I split. I click on the fifty-seven comments, the bulk of which are from people sharing their own experiences eating alone, which I remember comforting me at the time. I wasn’t a freak for feeling the way I did. Lots of people felt that way after losing their best friends, and even though I’d never met those people, knowing they were out there had made me feel less alone. My eyes land on the last comment in the queue, which someone left last week: “Is this blog dead? Or are you still out there?”
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I ponder a reply. Is this blog dead? Heidi doesn’t seem to think it should be. Maybe she’s right. I do have plenty of time to maintain it these days. And with all of my work at the farmers’ market, I have a new perspective on food and the farming system, not to mention all of the crazy characters who work there. I rub my hands together, crack my knuckles, and click Reply.
