A Second Bite at the Apple by Dana Bate Page B

permanent.”
    â€œI’m already working every winter market he does. Which, frankly, is about all the Rick I can handle right now.”
    â€œI’ll ask around and see if any friends have leads. We’ll find something.”
    â€œThanks. 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.
    â€œBy 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.”
    â€œYeah, I get e-mails whenever someone writes in. I’m shocked anyone still reads it.”
    â€œYou should start blogging again. You certainly have the time these days.”
    â€œOh, sure—devoting more of my time to yet another enterprise that doesn’t pay. Great idea.”
    â€œAt 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.”
    â€œI guess. I’ll think about it.”
    â€œLadies, 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.
    â€œHello, ladies,” he says, resting it on the edge of our table. “I come bearing gifts.”
    â€œOh, Drew, your mere presence is gift enough,” Heidi says.
    â€œIn that case . . .” He pulls the crate off the table.
    â€œNot so fast.” I reach out and draw the apples closer to me, rooting through the basket. “What exactly do we have here?”
    â€œAh, so apparently my presence isn’t enough for some people at this stand.”
    â€œYour presence isn’t going to feed my empty refrigerator and bank account,” I say.
    â€œFair 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