“He’s just—dammit, he’s just . . . dammit!” Ruby said, swooning.
Maxine agreed. “I know, I hear what you’re saying. Did you see that cucumber he brought last week? Gave me ideas.”
“Girl, if Roy ever had a cucumber that big, you think I’d have left him?”
“Hell no! You’re better off though, you know that.”
“I do. I also know that I’ve never seen Leo around town with anyone. Maybe he’s just waiting for the right gal.”
“And you think the right gal for him is a fifty-seven-year-old waitress from Bailey Falls?”
“Point taken. But if I were thirty years younger, I’d be throwing myself at him.”
Maxine snorted. “You’d have to be thirty years younger. A cucumber that size would kill you now.”
“But what a way to go!”
No girlfriend in the picture. Hmmm . . . I definitely needed to be on the lookout every time a delivery dude came through the back door. Strictly for redemption’s sake.
And that might also be why I found myself at the farmers’ market on Saturday morning.
I mean, maybe not. I was looking to see what was in season, who had the freshest produce. After all, excellence is my area.
Okay, and perhaps I was looking to see if a certain someone with a certain pair of eyes and a certain pair of strong and capable hands was there. So I could speak to him as an adult this time.
He was indeed there, and he had the biggest, longest line of all the vendors. Of course.
I also noticed how different the farmers’ market was from while I was growing up. Back then my mother and some other granola heads kept it alive, doing the local-food thing way back before it was hip. It was literally a few tables with giant tomatoes and the Jam Lady (best jam ever), and occasionally someone would bring in some eggs. It was held in the parking lot behind the Methodist church; there were never more than ten people at a time, including the farmers; and it usually ended with everyone sitting in the back of a truck, eating all the leftover caramel corn.
But this place was booming! The market had been relocated to the edge of town, in an old barn that was older than the town itself, from back when everything in the Hudson Valley had been farmland. Soaring high with white oak beams and rafters, it still held honest-to-goodness barn dances. And it was now home to the Bailey Falls farmers’ market, with permanent vendor booths set up inside the old stalls.
Each booth had the farm’s name proudly displayed over its table, which displayed whatever they were producing. Late spring greens were everywhere, turnip and mustard greens the most prominent. Lettuce of all varieties. Carrots in a riot of colors, not just orange—ruby red, purple, and vibrant yellow carrots spilled over their baskets and into customer’s waiting hands. One farmer had plates of sliced fresh radish set out, with piles of coarse salt and soft butter ready for dipping. Root vegetables, spring onion, garlic, and garlic scapes, that wonderful delectable that was only available in the late spring. Asparagus stalks, thin and tender, begged to be barely blanched and then tossed with the greenest olive oil. Early strawberries, still with their vines attached. And rhubarb for days.
But farmers’ markets were no longer just the territory of produce. A good farmers’ market could offer almost everything you needed for a week’s worth of great meals. Eggs, chicken, pork, sausage, beef—you name it, someone local was producing it. I circled the stalls, taking note of everything I wanted to try while I was in town. And as I circled, I found myself right back where I started. The big and the long—yeah yeah yeah.
Since Leo delivered to us, it would only be polite to say hi. Using the anonymity of the crowd, I give him a proper checkout. He was at least six feet two, long and lean, like someone who swam and ran track, rather than played football. He had an easy smile, and he was quick with it. I watched as he interacted with people he knew, people he didn’t as he stopped to shake hands, and when he came around the table to help a little old lady carry a basket out to her car, I couldn’t help but smile. Country Hipster was not only hot, but he was sweet. Lethal.
As I was getting in line to say hello I heard my name being called, and I turned to see a very good-looking man approaching.
Chad Bowman?
Oh boy. Captain of the swim team Chad Bowman. Senior class president Chad Bowman. Voted Best Looking, Best Body, and Most Likely to Succeed Chad Bowman.
And he’s walking toward me. The last time I saw him was at graduation, after he signed my yearbook. Then he walked away with Amy Schaefer, the prettiest girl in my school, probably to have the sex. The last time I saw him, I may have been drooling.
“Roxie? Holy shit, Roxie Callahan!” He caught me in a giant bear hug, pulling me off my feet. “I haven’t seen you since, oh man, was it graduation?”
He smelled like sunscreen and honey and something intangible. Was it the scent of success? The scent of perfection? Of the good life, the incredible lightness of being handsome? The scent of knowing who you are and what you want and how to get it? Because a guy like this doesn’t take no for an answer. Doesn’t know the meaning of shy or nervous. He just knows awesome.
I inhaled another hit of high school royalty before he could put me down and his stunningly gorgeous wife would no doubt appear and ask why he was hugging some town girl wearing a T-shirt that said That’s Not Cream Filling.
“Chad, it’s great to see you, how’ve you been?” I managed as he finally set me down. I wasn’t stammering; California Roxie had returned!
“I’m good, really good actually,” he said with a wide grin. God, he even had perfect teeth. “How about you—what’re you doing back home?”
Maxine agreed. “I know, I hear what you’re saying. Did you see that cucumber he brought last week? Gave me ideas.”
“Girl, if Roy ever had a cucumber that big, you think I’d have left him?”
“Hell no! You’re better off though, you know that.”
“I do. I also know that I’ve never seen Leo around town with anyone. Maybe he’s just waiting for the right gal.”
“And you think the right gal for him is a fifty-seven-year-old waitress from Bailey Falls?”
“Point taken. But if I were thirty years younger, I’d be throwing myself at him.”
Maxine snorted. “You’d have to be thirty years younger. A cucumber that size would kill you now.”
“But what a way to go!”
No girlfriend in the picture. Hmmm . . . I definitely needed to be on the lookout every time a delivery dude came through the back door. Strictly for redemption’s sake.
And that might also be why I found myself at the farmers’ market on Saturday morning.
I mean, maybe not. I was looking to see what was in season, who had the freshest produce. After all, excellence is my area.
Okay, and perhaps I was looking to see if a certain someone with a certain pair of eyes and a certain pair of strong and capable hands was there. So I could speak to him as an adult this time.
He was indeed there, and he had the biggest, longest line of all the vendors. Of course.
I also noticed how different the farmers’ market was from while I was growing up. Back then my mother and some other granola heads kept it alive, doing the local-food thing way back before it was hip. It was literally a few tables with giant tomatoes and the Jam Lady (best jam ever), and occasionally someone would bring in some eggs. It was held in the parking lot behind the Methodist church; there were never more than ten people at a time, including the farmers; and it usually ended with everyone sitting in the back of a truck, eating all the leftover caramel corn.
But this place was booming! The market had been relocated to the edge of town, in an old barn that was older than the town itself, from back when everything in the Hudson Valley had been farmland. Soaring high with white oak beams and rafters, it still held honest-to-goodness barn dances. And it was now home to the Bailey Falls farmers’ market, with permanent vendor booths set up inside the old stalls.
Each booth had the farm’s name proudly displayed over its table, which displayed whatever they were producing. Late spring greens were everywhere, turnip and mustard greens the most prominent. Lettuce of all varieties. Carrots in a riot of colors, not just orange—ruby red, purple, and vibrant yellow carrots spilled over their baskets and into customer’s waiting hands. One farmer had plates of sliced fresh radish set out, with piles of coarse salt and soft butter ready for dipping. Root vegetables, spring onion, garlic, and garlic scapes, that wonderful delectable that was only available in the late spring. Asparagus stalks, thin and tender, begged to be barely blanched and then tossed with the greenest olive oil. Early strawberries, still with their vines attached. And rhubarb for days.
But farmers’ markets were no longer just the territory of produce. A good farmers’ market could offer almost everything you needed for a week’s worth of great meals. Eggs, chicken, pork, sausage, beef—you name it, someone local was producing it. I circled the stalls, taking note of everything I wanted to try while I was in town. And as I circled, I found myself right back where I started. The big and the long—yeah yeah yeah.
Since Leo delivered to us, it would only be polite to say hi. Using the anonymity of the crowd, I give him a proper checkout. He was at least six feet two, long and lean, like someone who swam and ran track, rather than played football. He had an easy smile, and he was quick with it. I watched as he interacted with people he knew, people he didn’t as he stopped to shake hands, and when he came around the table to help a little old lady carry a basket out to her car, I couldn’t help but smile. Country Hipster was not only hot, but he was sweet. Lethal.
As I was getting in line to say hello I heard my name being called, and I turned to see a very good-looking man approaching.
Chad Bowman?
Oh boy. Captain of the swim team Chad Bowman. Senior class president Chad Bowman. Voted Best Looking, Best Body, and Most Likely to Succeed Chad Bowman.
And he’s walking toward me. The last time I saw him was at graduation, after he signed my yearbook. Then he walked away with Amy Schaefer, the prettiest girl in my school, probably to have the sex. The last time I saw him, I may have been drooling.
“Roxie? Holy shit, Roxie Callahan!” He caught me in a giant bear hug, pulling me off my feet. “I haven’t seen you since, oh man, was it graduation?”
He smelled like sunscreen and honey and something intangible. Was it the scent of success? The scent of perfection? Of the good life, the incredible lightness of being handsome? The scent of knowing who you are and what you want and how to get it? Because a guy like this doesn’t take no for an answer. Doesn’t know the meaning of shy or nervous. He just knows awesome.
I inhaled another hit of high school royalty before he could put me down and his stunningly gorgeous wife would no doubt appear and ask why he was hugging some town girl wearing a T-shirt that said That’s Not Cream Filling.
“Chad, it’s great to see you, how’ve you been?” I managed as he finally set me down. I wasn’t stammering; California Roxie had returned!
“I’m good, really good actually,” he said with a wide grin. God, he even had perfect teeth. “How about you—what’re you doing back home?”
