perfect balance between crispy and chewy. Every bite is perfumed with vanilla and just a touch of cinnamon, and I can see why Rick sells out at every market.
âSo I have a job lead for you,â Heidi says as she arranges a stack of apple streusel muffins on a porcelain cake stand.
âReally? Where?â
âI was talking to Julieâthe woman who runs the whole farmersâ market consortium in DCâand she mentioned they need someone to manage their weekly newsletter. Sheâs looking for someone to write a few columns about whatâs fresh at market, profile a few farmers, stuff like that. I pointed her to your blog, and she liked what she saw.â
âReally? Any idea how much it pays?â
âNo idea. My guess is not much. But itâs something. If not full-time, then at least a resume builder.â
I sigh. âConsidering I worked on a national news show for four years, writing a farmersâ market newsletter doesnât exactly feel like a step forward.â
âItâs a step in a different directionâthe right direction, from what youâve said youâd actually like to do.â
âTrue. Do you think sheâd mind if I e-mailed her?â
âSheâd love it. Iâll send you her contact info.â
The opening bell rings, and as Heidi helps a few customers at the other end of our tent, a man in a navy North Face jacket and Red Sox baseball cap approaches my corner. His face is vaguely familiar, but his hat covers so much of his forehead that I canât place him.
âHey there,â he says with a grin as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat.
âHi . . . Can I help you?â
âDonât you remember me?â
I search his face and realize he is the guy from Bar PilarâJeremy, the one who tried to slip me his number on a piece of bakery tissue paper back in December. I havenât seen him since.
âOhâhi. Jeremy, right? I havenât seen you here in a while.â
âThings got a little crazy at the beginning of the year with work. You know how it is.â
âI wish,â I say. He looks as if he wants me to elaborate, but I decide against boring him with my unemployment sob story. âAnyway, what can I get you?â
âWow. Down to business. Okay.â He scrunches his lips to the side and scans the table.
âThe apple streusel muffins are relatively new. So is the Finnish pulla.â
He rubs his chin, which is covered with the barest whisper of brown stubble. âThose sound good, but thatâs not really what I want. . . .â
âOatmeal raisin cookie?â
He fixes his eyes on mine. âI was thinking more along the lines of a date with you.â
I swallow hard. âA what?â
âA date. You and me.â
âIâm sort of . . . busy lately.â
This, clearly, is not true, unless I am qualifying as âbusyâ working at the farmersâ market and maintaining a social life that primarily involves Law & Order reruns.
âIs that why you never called me?â he asks. âI left you my number.â
âYou did? I never got it,â I lie.
âAh. Well, that would make calling me a little difficult.â
âUsually does.â
He grins and leans back on his heels. âWhat are you doing Friday night?â
âFriday? As in six days from now?â
âUnless thereâs another Friday I donât know about . . .â
I rack my brain. Friday, Friday, Friday. What do I have going on this Friday? Oh, right: nothing, because I have to work at the farmersâ market the next morning. Also, I am boring and currently have no life.
âHadnât thought about it,â I say.
âLet me take you to dinner.â
I clear my throat. âYeah, the thing is, I might beââ
âLame?â
I furrow my brow. âNo, I was going to say I might beââ
âLame. You might be lame