A Second Bite at the Apple (6 page)

As I scan my site today, I see the most recent post is dated four years ago, a week before I started at
The Morning Show
. I reread the first sentence:

The post goes on to detail the art of eating alone, of finding peace at a table for one. It reads like a piece of post-breakup therapy, even though I'd written it six months after Zach and I split. I click on the fifty-seven comments, the bulk of which are from people sharing their own experiences eating alone, which I remember comforting me at the time. I wasn't a freak for feeling the way I did. Lots of people felt that way after losing their best friends, and even though I'd never met those people, knowing they were out there had made me feel less alone. My eyes land on the last comment in the queue, which someone left last week: “Is this blog dead? Or are you still out there?”

My fingers hover over the keyboard as I ponder a reply. Is this blog dead? Heidi doesn't seem to think it should be. Maybe she's right. I do have plenty of time to maintain it these days. And with all of my work at the farmers' market, I have a new perspective on food and the farming system, not to mention all of the crazy characters who work there. I rub my hands together, crack my knuckles, and click Reply.

“I'm still out here,” I write.

Then I click New Post and let my fingers fly.

In the first week, my first post in more than four years garners a total of twenty views and one measly comment, which is actually from a spam bot promoting drugs for erectile dysfunction. Considering the post is about heirloom apples, this is both disappointing and confusing.

One of the twenty readers happens to be my sister, who calls me the Friday after I post, with what I can only assume is some sort of wedding-related query.

“Leave it to you to turn apples into a history lesson,” she says as soon as I pick up the phone.

“Hello to you, too.”

“Come on. You didn't expect me not to comment on that post. Antique apples? What a snoozefest.”

“Just because you don't care doesn't mean no one else does. Some people enjoy reading material beyond
Bachelorette
recaps.”

“Oh my God, did you see this week's episode?” she gushes.

I sigh. “No.”

“You should. So much drama. Anyway, I didn't know you'd decided to start blogging again. Where'd that come from?”

“I guess I missed it. I've been working at the farmers' market, so I realized I had plenty of new material. Like those apples. One of the other vendors gave them to me, and it got me thinking about why we have, like, five kinds of apples in the grocery store when there are dozens and dozens of varieties out there.”

Libby fakes a snore. “Only kidding,” she says. “It was actually kind of interesting. Needed a recipe, though. Or are you still on your cooking strike?”

“It isn't a cooking strike.”

“Oh, really? When was the last time you actually cooked something other than Easy Mac?”

I consider her question and come up blank. “I don't know. I can't remember.”

“You can't remember because it's been years. Four years and seven months, if I had to guess.”

“Libby . . .”

“It's just weird. All through high school, we couldn't get you out of Zach's kitchen, and now you won't set foot in one.”

“That isn't true,” I say.

“You're right: In high school, you wouldn't really cook in Mom's kitchen either. So I guess now you've just extended the policy across the board.”

“Jesus, Libby, would you lay off?”

“I'm just saying.”

Libby is always “just saying.” The phrase is one of her most annoying retorts. But she isn't entirely wrong. In high school, Zach's was the only kitchen in which I spent much time, mostly because his mom's gear was so much nicer than mine. But I also felt, from a very early age, that our family kitchen was Mom and Libby's domain. They always had so much in common—the same hair and eye color, the same cadence in their voices, the same interest in clothes and shopping and soap operas. Over school breaks, the two of them would powwow about what culinary adventure they would take up next, whether it was a chocolate soufflé or a croquembouche, and it was clear their bond over cooking was something I could never be a part of. Whenever I tried to help, I felt like an intruder. So instead of nosing around every time they decided to cook together, I gave up and left them alone, even though, deep down, I wanted to join in the fun.

“Anyway,” Libby says with a protracted sigh, “the main reason I'm calling is to ask if you can come to my tasting at The Rittenhouse in June.”

“Isn't that for couples and parents only?”

“They said I can bring anyone I want. And Matt is sort of fussy about food, so I could use your input.”

“If he's the groom, though, shouldn't the menu be something he'd enjoy?”

“If it were up to Matt, we'd serve chicken fingers and French fries. And that is so not happening.”

“I thought you two were soul mates.”

“We are. We just have different ideas about wedding food.”

I glance at the ceiling. “Yeah, okay, I'll be there. When is it?”

“June 10—a Friday. I know you'd normally be working that day, but given how all of that is going . . .”

She trails off. Normally I'd say she was trying to wind me up, as she always does, but considering she wants me to do her a favor, I know it's just Libby's typical self-absorption combined with her complete lack of interest in my career.

“I'll mark my calendar,” I say.

“Yay! I'm so excited. And it'll be even more fun for you because you don't have to worry about fitting into a wedding dress.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“I'm just saying,” she replies.

Of course she is.

 

The next morning, Rick greets me at the West End farmers' market with his signature blend of cantankerousness and misogyny.

“Hurry up, sweet cheeks,” he bellows from the cavernous interior of the truck. “I don't have all morning.”

I meet Heidi beside the loading area and grab a crate of oatmeal raisin cookies. Their sweet, toasty aroma makes my stomach growl. They are nearly five inches in diameter and packed with plump golden raisins and fat rolled oats, the 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.

“So I have a job lead for you,” Heidi says as she arranges a stack of apple streusel muffins on a porcelain cake stand.

“Really? Where?”

“I 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.”

“Really? Any idea how much it pays?”

“No 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.”

“It's a step in a different direction—the right direction, from what you've said you'd actually like to do.”

“True. Do you think she'd mind if I e-mailed her?”

“She'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.

“Hey there,” he says with a grin as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“Hi . . . Can I help you?”

“Don'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.

“Oh—hi. Jeremy, right? I haven't seen you here in a while.”

“Things got a little crazy at the beginning of the year with work. You know how it is.”

“I 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?”

“Wow. Down to business. Okay.” He scrunches his lips to the side and scans the table.

“The 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. . . .”

“Oatmeal 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?”

“A date. You and me.”

“I'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.

“Is that why you never called me?” he asks. “I left you my number.”

“You did? I never got it,” I lie.

“Ah. Well, that would make calling me a little difficult.”

“Usually does.”

He grins and leans back on his heels. “What are you doing Friday night?”

“Friday? As in six days from now?”

“Unless 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.

“Hadn't thought about it,” I say.

“Let me take you to dinner.”

I clear my throat. “Yeah, the thing is, I might be—”

“Lame?”

I furrow my brow. “No, I was going to say I might be—”

“Lame. You might be lame and make up some excuse as to why you can't have dinner with me. Am I right?”

I pick up a piece of bakery tissue paper and rub it between my fingers. Before I can confirm that yes, in fact, I was about to make up an excuse as to why I can't have dinner with him, mostly because I don't
want
to go out to dinner with him, Rick yells at me from the other side of the tent.

“Come on, Chatty Cathy. People are waiting!”

“Sorry!” I yell back.

Jeremy grins. “How about this: Meet me Friday night at Birch and Barley at seven o'clock. If you're bored after fifteen minutes, you can leave. No strings attached.”

“Fifteen minutes?”

He nods. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Sydney, let's
go!
” Rick shouts.

“Okay, okay!” I yell over my shoulder. I look back at Jeremy. I could say no. I probably should say no, given that he called me a loud talker and will probably decide I am an undateable nerd after two minutes. But there is something about him—his penetrating eyes, his unapologetic boldness, his endearing smile. I could say no, but something in my gut won't let me.

“Okay,” I say. “I'll be there. But I'm holding you to that fifteen-minute rule.”

“Then I'd better bring my A game,” he says with a smirk. “See you Friday. And as long as I'm here . . .” He points to an oatmeal raisin cookie.

“You got it.” I stuff the cookie into a bag, and as I study the devilish grin on Jeremy's face, I decide I either just made the best decision I've ever made, or the worst.

The following Friday night, I show up at Birch and Barley looking as good as someone with a supremely limited fashion sense who doesn't really want to participate in this dinner can look: bland and unremarkable, other than my raging under-eye circles and stubby nails, which I've bitten down to the quick. Were this a date with my dream man—whatever rare specimen might fit that description—I would have used my meager salary to buy a new dress and new underwear and new shoes. I would have popped for the fifteen-dollar anti-frizz pomade, instead of the five-dollar pot-o'-grease I have applied to my unruly, dark brown waves, and I would have spent two hours grooming myself into my most attractive state.

But this isn't my dream man. This is some guy who seems to be stalking me, and so I haven't done any of those things. And, by decree, I only have to spend fifteen minutes with him before I can go home, change into fleece pants, and flip through reruns of
Law & Order
and
The Office
. Part of me wishes I could dispense with this entire charade before it begins.

The good news is that Birch and Barley sits only seven short blocks south of my apartment, on a stretch of Fourteenth Street teeming with restaurants, bars, and home furnishing shops. This part of Washington has always felt more like New York or Philadelphia to me, with its urban bustle and density, each storefront pressed tightly against the next. I think that's why I chose to live in this area of town. Even if I worked crazy hours, rarely dated, and spent most of my free time in my apartment by myself, I had at least the illusion of companionship. Surrounded by so many people, I could pretend I wasn't completely alone.

I squeeze past a group lingering in front of the restaurant's warehouse-like edifice, with its two-story birch door and large-paned front window. The front vestibule is cramped and narrow, and I line up behind the crowd waiting to speak to the hostess. The interior of the restaurant is warm and dark, with exotic wood panels interspersed between long stretches of exposed brick walls. Small globe lights dangle from the ceiling, their twinkling orbs casting a warm glow on the plush olive booths and Lucite chairs. The room is hip and sexy and polished—everything I currently am not.

I make my way up to the hostess, who is aggressively tapping her touch-screen computer. She glances up at me. “Can I help you?”

“I'm supposed to be meeting someone. A guy named Jeremy? Reservation for seven o'clock?”

She raps her finger against her computer screen. “Unfortunately, you're the first to arrive, and we can't seat you until the entire party is present. But if you want, you can—”

“Looking for me?”

I glance over my shoulder and find Jeremy standing behind me, the jacket to his gray suit slung over his shoulder. He wears a lilac shirt with a navy grid and matching navy tie, along with a pair of shiny silver cufflinks. I feel massively unstylish in my black pants and black boatneck tee, which are slightly different shades of black and are both at least three years old. Also, even on my wiry frame, the pants are too tight. Not in a sexy way. In an “I've-been-eating-a-lot-of-free-brioche” kind of way. An “I-may-need-to-unbutton-my-pants-when-we-sit-down” kind of way. This outfit was a terrible mistake.

I smile at Jeremy and motion toward the hostess. “I was just checking in.”

“Perfect timing then.”

The hostess leads us to our table, one of five two-tops lined up against the side wall, with a plush bench stretching from end to end and Lucite chairs perched on the opposite side.

“Bench or chair?” Jeremy asks, gesturing to the booth against the wall and the chair on the outside.

“Chair,” I say. An easier escape.

I sit down, and as soon as the hostess hands us the menus, Jeremy grabs mine out of my hand. “Ah, ah, ah—not so fast,” he says. “I might only have fifteen minutes with you. I don't want to spend the majority of it reading the menu.”

I fold my hands in my lap. “Fair enough.”

“So tell me a little about yourself. How long have you been working at the farmers' market?”

“Two months today, actually. Since you saw me there for the first time in December.”

“How'd you get into that?”

“Long story. My friend Heidi got food poisoning, and I had to fill in for her, and then working there became a good way to make a few bucks while I look for a real job.”

He raises an eyebrow as he takes a sip of water. “You're still out of work?”

“What do you mean ‘still'?”

“That night I met you at Bar Pilar, you mentioned losing your job. . . .”

“Oh, right. When you were eavesdropping.” He starts to object, but I cut him off. “Sorry—you weren't eavesdropping. I was just talking REALLY LOUD.”

The couple at the table next to us jumps, and Jeremy flushes. “Here we go again. . . .”

“Sorry,” I say. “Bad joke.”

He grins and relaxes. “So back to the farmers' market . . .”

“Right. The market. I've been working for Wild Yeast for two months, a few days a week. And this week I've been e-mailing with the woman who manages most of the markets in DC, and she may pay me to write their weekly newsletter.”

“That sounds cool. Would that be a temporary thing too?”

“Not sure. Ideally the work on the newsletter would help me land a job in food journalism, which is what I've always wanted to do anyway.”

Jeremy's cheeks flush. “Ah.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I . . . nothing.”

“What, you have something against food writers?”

His expression darkens. “No. I used to be one.”

“Really?” I study his face. I'd thought he looked familiar. “Where?”

He clears his throat. “The
Washington Chronicle
.”

“Wow—seriously? That's like my dream job. Why did you leave?”

“Long story.” He glances down at his watch and grimaces. “And one we don't have time for because apparently I only have five minutes left to convince you I'm not a loser. As far as I can tell, I'm doing a really bad job.”

“I'll be honest. The situation is not looking good.”

Jeremy slaps himself across the face. “Come on, man! Pull it together!”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Tell you what. I'll give you a five-minute extension. So you have ten minutes left.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Jeremy pumps his fist under the table. He shakes out his shoulders and loosens his neck, tilting his head from side to side. “Okay,” he says. “Time to do this right.”

He rubs his hands together and fixes his blue eyes on mine, and I'm struck by both how familiar he seems and how much better looking he is than I'd realized. “Okay,” he says. “Tell me about the best and worst things you ever ate, and where you ate them.”

“Ever?”

“Ever,” he says. “And I'll go next. Think fast. We only have ten minutes. Ready? Go.”

 

Somehow, ten minutes morphs into thirty, and before I know it, we've drunk a beer each and have ordered starters and entrées off the menu. I've learned that the best thing he's ever eaten was fresh ricotta on a small farm outside Scanno in Abruzzo, Italy, and that his worst meal involved Hamburger Helper, minus the hamburger, when he was a poor college student and couldn't afford to splurge on beef. He is a beer nerd who brews at home and brought me here because he loves their draft list, and in the thirty minutes of our date, he has already taught me the difference between brewing a porter and brewing an IPA. I've learned that he loves Fitzgerald and Hornby, Bach and Death Cab for Cutie, autumn and
Seinfeld
and Humphrey Bogart movies. I've learned we have a lot more in common than I thought.

“So wait,” he says, as he takes a sip of his second beer, a Kasteel Tripel. “Let's go back to this cigarette spaghetti situation. I'm seriously confused as to how this could have happened.”

I laugh and almost spit my porter back into my glass. “I know. It's a mystery. But I'm telling you: It tasted like eating a plate full of cigarettes.”

“And this was at band camp?”

“No—not band camp. It was more like a band . . . festival.” Jeremy starts snickering. “Shut up! It was a big deal. Only a few kids from each high school were chosen.”

“Hey, you're talking to a former tuba player. I'm not judging.”

“You played the
tuba?
”

He blushes. “It's an important instrument—and, I'll have you know, one that's difficult to play well.”

“Tell me about it. I learned a lot those years at band ca—sorry, band
festival
.”

“So what did you play?”

“Clarinet.”

He smiles. “That fits.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“All of the clarinet players at my high school were cute girls. And none of them would go on a date with me.”

The waitress returns with our grilled octopus and tuna tartare appetizers, cutting off Jeremy before I can point out that I
am
on a date with him—the first date I've been on in ages, actually. I could blame my dating misfortune on the intensity of working on a daily news show, but that would be an easy excuse, and it wouldn't be entirely true. I could also blame Zach, and although he started me down this path of mistrust and loneliness, I'm the one who has continued on it for so long.

What happens, if you're me, is at a young age you let someone know you, totally and completely, and then that person breaks your heart. So you don't date for a while, and you blame the breakup, which is true but eventually sounds lame as the months pass. So then you blame your job for being too time consuming, which is only partially true but sounds more reasonable to an outsider than blaming an ex-boyfriend you haven't seen or talked to in a year. And then, even once the early sting of betrayal wears off, it becomes easier not to date. To opt out. To protect yourself from rejection. Publicly you still blame your job, and you hide behind that story, until that hidden space becomes warm and cozy, and you don't want to come out from behind it. And the more time that passes, the cozier that space becomes, until the dating world seems like a wild jungle, full of traps and hazards and scary things. So what do you do? You burrow deeper into that space and spend your nights alone, fantasizing about an ex-boyfriend who probably doesn't even think about you anymore.

And then, by some combination of pressure and guilt and decidedly peculiar luck, you end up on a date with a guy named Jeremy, who proves dating isn't scary after all.

“This octopus is to die for,” he says, cutting into a fat tentacle. “Here, try a bite.”

He cuts off a large hunk and deposits it on my bread plate, and I poke my fork into it and stick the slice into my mouth. The meat is tender and juicy and slightly sweet, with a smoky kick from the charred grilled bits.

“Wow, you're right,” I say, washing the octopus down with a sip of my beer. “That's fantastic.”

“I take it you've never been here before?”

I shake my head. “I don't get out a lot.”

“No?”

I consider the best way not to sound socially incompetent. Given my track record, this will not be easy.

“No,” I say, opting for a one-word answer, simple and true.

He grins as he cuts into another piece of octopus. “Then we'll have to change that, won't we?”

The alcohol rushes to my cheeks, and I can hear my heart thumping in my ears. “Sure,” I say.

I smile and fix my eyes on his, and then, to dispel any ambiguity in my response, I add, “Yeah. I'd really like that.”