Free A Second Bite at the Apple by Dana Bate

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.
    â€œSo I have a job lead for you,” Heidi says as she arranges a stack of apple streusel muffins on a porcelain cake stand.
    â€œReally? Where?”
    â€œI was talking to Julie—the woman who runs the whole farmers’ market consortium in DC—and she mentioned they need someone to manage their weekly newsletter. She’s looking for someone to write a few columns about what’s fresh at market, profile a few farmers, stuff like that. I pointed her to your blog, and she liked what she saw.”
    â€œReally? Any idea how much it pays?”
    â€œNo idea. My guess is not much. But it’s something. If not full-time, then at least a resume builder.”
    I sigh. “Considering I worked on a national news show for four years, writing a farmers’ market newsletter doesn’t exactly feel like a step forward.”
    â€œIt’s a step in a different direction—the right direction, from what you’ve said you’d actually like to do.”
    â€œTrue. Do you think she’d mind if I e-mailed her?”
    â€œShe’d love it. I’ll send you her contact info.”
    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 can’t place him.
    â€œHey there,” he says with a grin as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat.
    â€œHi . . . Can I help you?”
    â€œDon’t you remember me?”
    I search his face and realize he is the guy from Bar Pilar—Jeremy, the one who tried to slip me his number on a piece of bakery tissue paper back in December. I haven’t seen him since.
    â€œOh—hi. Jeremy, right? I haven’t seen you here in a while.”
    â€œThings got a little crazy at the beginning of the year with work. You know how it is.”
    â€œI wish,” I say. He looks as if he wants me to elaborate, but I decide against boring him with my unemployment sob story. “Anyway, what can I get you?”
    â€œWow. Down to business. Okay.” He scrunches his lips to the side and scans the table.
    â€œThe apple streusel muffins are relatively new. So is the Finnish pulla.”
    He rubs his chin, which is covered with the barest whisper of brown stubble. “Those sound good, but that’s not really what I want. . . .”
    â€œOatmeal raisin cookie?”
    He fixes his eyes on mine. “I was thinking more along the lines of a date with you.”
    I swallow hard. “A what?”
    â€œA date. You and me.”
    â€œI’m sort of . . . busy lately.”
    This, clearly, is not true, unless I am qualifying as “busy” working at the farmers’ market and maintaining a social life that primarily involves Law & Order reruns.
    â€œIs that why you never called me?” he asks. “I left you my number.”
    â€œYou did? I never got it,” I lie.
    â€œAh. Well, that would make calling me a little difficult.”
    â€œUsually does.”
    He grins and leans back on his heels. “What are you doing Friday night?”
    â€œFriday? As in six days from now?”
    â€œUnless there’s another Friday I don’t know about . . .”
    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 farmers’ market the next morning. Also, I am boring and currently have no life.
    â€œHadn’t thought about it,” I say.
    â€œLet me take you to dinner.”
    I clear my throat. “Yeah, the thing is, I might be—”
    â€œLame?”
    I furrow my brow. “No, I was going to say I might be—”
    â€œLame. You might be lame