A Second Bite at the Apple by Dana Bate Page A

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.
    â€œCome 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?”
    â€œGot 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?”
    â€œNone. At this point I’m applying to anything that will pay me.”
    â€œYou’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.”
    â€œAre you kidding? You’re way too uptight. One mention of handcuffs, and you’d be all, ‘You want me to do what? ’ ”
    â€œTouché.” 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.”
    â€œHave you asked Rick about adding more days to your schedule? At least until you find something more