Death of a Bad Apple (2 page)

There was no better way to start the day. Except maybe waking up in Jake's arms in a cozy bed-and-breakfast in the fall countryside.

I peered out the window. “I better get back to the school bus. Looks like a line is starting to form. Time for another hectic day in the truck trenches. I hope that weekend in the country isn't all work and no relaxation. I could really use some peace and quiet.”

“I hope it
stays
quiet,” Jake said as I headed for the exit.

I turned back. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I went online before I signed up to see what the Apple Fest is all about.”

“And?”

“Sounds like not everything in Apple Valley has been in apple pie order.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Apparently something's been upsetting the apple cart lately.”

“Will you quit with the apple metaphors and tell me what's going on?”

“Well, according to the American Apple Association, some GMO companies are trying to infiltrate the industry and it's causing quite an uproar among the farmers.”

“GMO? As in genetically modified organism?” I'd read about GMOs while working at the newspaper and knew that GMO foods were controversial.

Jake nodded. “A couple of the articles claimed GMO apples are going to cut the organic farms to the core.”

I rolled my eyes. One more apple metaphor and I was going to turn him into applesauce.

But, more important, what was my aunt Abby getting us into this time?

“Aunt Abby?” I called as I mounted the steps of the school bus. “You've already got a line of hungry customers.”

“I know,” Aunt Abby said, handing me a fresh yellow apron emblazoned with the Big Yellow School Bus logo. “I can't wait to have them try my new apple treats. I just hope Dillon didn't eat them all.” She shot a glance at Dillon, who was perched on a stool, checking his iPhone.

“I only had three,” Dillon argued absentmindedly. As usual, he was tapping out a text message. “Or maybe it was four. Or five.”

Dillon claimed he could multitask, but I thought he was just doubly distracted. He often spoke without thinking first, and his bluntness irritated me, but as Aunt Abby's only son, he was the apple of her eye and a genius when it came to computers. I only hoped his
hacking skills didn't get him arrested one day. He'd already been in enough trouble at the university. I thought it was time he got his act together, in spite of his lack of social skills, but Aunt Abby coddled him too much. I also sensed he was unhappy I was living in his mother's Airstream. I was sure he wanted it for himself. Still, he'd helped me on several occasions, using his computer savvy, and I owed him for that.

“The tarts aren't that big, you know,” he continued. “I could barely taste anything until I got to the last one.”

While I shook my head, Aunt Abby smiled fondly at him. Her son could do no wrong in her eyes.

“Showtime!” Aunt Abby sang out, signaling the start of our business day. She pulled up the blinds and slid open the ordering window, ready with her pen and pad.

The next four hours went quickly with nonstop customers. We were always busier on the weekends, when more tourists were around. As usual, I was ready to collapse by the time Aunt Abby offered me a break around three o'clock.

I removed my food-streaked apron and dumped it into the hamper. “Wow, your new tarts were a hit, Aunt Abby!”

She gave her dimpled smile. “We sold out just after the lunch rush! I'll have to double the recipe for tomorrow.”

“I'm glad they were a success. And they were perfect.”

“Oh no.” My aunt shook her head. “There's always
a way to make something better. Maybe a bit more caramel and a little less salt. Or vice versa. I'll have to experiment tonight. But as soon as we clean up here, you two can go. I'll see you at home, after I stop off at the market and get a few things.”

We finished doing the dishes, sanitizing the surfaces, and putting utensils away and had the bus shipshape in record time. I checked Jake's truck as I headed for my VW Bug, but he'd already closed down for the day. Well, I'd see him soon enough. He'd invited me to dinner at his loft in SOMA, and I looked forward to whatever he was whipping up.

I left Fort Mason and drove home, thinking about the upcoming Apple Fest. As soon as I got to the Airstream that was parked on the side of Aunt Abby's Russian Hill house—my temporary home—I cleaned up in the tiny shower and threw on black jeans, an orange V-neck sweater, and a pair of black Toms. Eager to do some research and check out the Apple Valley Web site so I could start planning the romantic part of the getaway weekend, I opened my laptop and logged on. The official Web site proved to be full of information on everything anybody would want to know about apples.

Apple Valley is a wonderland of orchards, farms, wineries, breweries, and bed-and-breakfast inns—the perfect place for an out-of-town getaway, a country picnic, or fun with the family. Come pick your own apples right from the trees or gather them from the convenient containers, then sample the apple treats freshly prepared in
our kitchens. You'll find dozens of varieties of apples to choose from, including golden delicious, Granny Smith, Pippin, pink lady, Rome Beauty, Fuji, Gala, and Mutsu, just to name a few. While you're here, learn about the joys of apple farming, which apples are best for cooking and which are best for eating, and savor the fruits of our labor while viewing acres and acres of apple trees, as far as the eye can see.

Whoever wrote this stuff made the place sound like Apple Eden. In a good way, of course, without the serpent and all that befell from
that
notorious apple incident. I clicked the link to read about local bed-and-breakfast inns in the Apple Valley area, then tapped on the Enchanted Apple Inn. The more I read, the more I wanted to leave today and not wait another four weeks.

Welcome to the Enchanted Apple Inn, a luxurious country estate nestled in the sprawling Apple Valley. Come rest your bones, replenish your spirits, and revive your romance at our beautifully restored Victorian home. The rooms are lovingly decorated in an apple theme, with baskets of your favorites at your fingertips. Stop by the tranquil duck pond, stroll through the ample gardens, and sample a complimentary glass of apple wine while you take in the scenic surrounding farms and orchards.

By the time I finished reading the flowery description, I was ready to move there, permanently. Was this place a slice of apple pie heaven or what? I could
probably fill my Food Truck Cookbook with nothing but apple recipes.

I clicked back to the main site to see if there was anything I'd missed. Scanning down to the bottom of the Web site, I noticed a link that read “Note.”

I tapped the link.
“We are proud to grow only natural, organic, and pesticide-free fruit in Apple Valley. Do not be fooled by artificially manufactured and genetically modified apples.”

That was an odd thing to add to the promotion information. I remembered Jake had said something about a controversy among the apple growers. My reporter instincts kicked in and I typed “GMO apples” into my search engine. A number of links to genetically modified apples appeared on the screen. I clicked the one at the top and read the headline.

Eden Apple Corporation—

Are You Ready for Frankenfruit?

Wow. Jake was right. Apparently there was a worm in the apple industry. I couldn't wait to read more. Maybe there was a story in it that could get me back at the
Chron
. Then again, did I really want to go back, now that I was working on a cookbook featuring food truck fare?

Who wouldn't want a big perfect apple that doesn't turn brown when you slice it? Sounds too good to be true, right? But that's what's happening in the biotech world of genetic engineering known as GMOs—and these
genetically modified organisms are coming to a restaurant, fruit stand, and school cafeteria near you. Basically untested, this brave new world of apple modification is unlabeled and drenched in toxic pesticides, posing health risks we've not even considered. But companies like Eden Apple, one of the major GMO producers, are growing, and they're pushing to have their Frankenfruit approved for sale to the general public. These mutants may soon take over the entire apple industry.

Well, I thought, here was scare-tactic journalism at its worst. But I had to admit, it had me at “Frankenfruit.” I couldn't stop reading.

These newly created bad apples contain over forty pesticides that are especially toxic to children, yet some scientists say these tainted apples are “harmless.” As the pro – and anti-GMO movements argue about safety, the Eden apple has not been tested by the FDA or USDA, and may only be labeled as a GMO product in code—a five-digit number beginning with the number eight—when it lands on the shelves. Without it, consumers won't be able to choose whether they want to buy and eat this freak of nature.

The controversy over these GMO fruits has raged for nearly a decade. But when the GMO apples appear on the shelves, the organic apples won't stand a chance. Why? Because the GMO apple will “look” perfect.

“They're not unsafe,” argues Reuben Gottfried, the CEO of Eden Apple Corporation. “People have been eating GMO products for decades—soybeans, corn, papaya—all genetically engineered to resist disease and increase yields. Your so-called organic apples are subject to all kinds of pests and diseases, like winter moth, codling moth, aphids, sawfly, weevil, scab, canker, brown rot—the list goes on. Thanks to science, we've found a way to remedy those threats and prevent acres of orchards from being destroyed.”

“The truth is, these GMO apples haven't been studied properly,” says Adam Bramley, president of the American Apple Association. “If it's not organic, I don't eat it,” he states, “and neither should anyone else.”

My cell phone rang, startling me out of the engaging article. I looked at the caller ID and answered, “Hi, Jake.”

“Hey, Darcy. Sorry I didn't get a chance to say good-bye when I left, but it looked like you and your aunt were still swamped.”

“We were! With cleanup, I didn't get out of there until nearly four. Are we still on for tonight?”

“Looking forward to it,” Jake answered. “I hope you like sushi.”

I gulped. I wasn't a fan of raw fish. I covered by asking, “You make your own sushi?”

“Yep. I'll teach you how to make your own rolls.” While I was impressed that he had mastered the art
of sushi, I could barely make a tuna sandwich. And I wasn't sure I wanted to learn how.

“I'll probably turn them into cat food,” I said, not wanting to confess the truth if he'd already gone to trouble.

“You just wait. I'll have you creating rolls almost too beautiful to eat.”

“Nothing's too beautiful to eat,” I forced myself to say—except sushi. “See you soon.”

I hung up. I'd just have to grin and eat it, like those starving people on
Survivor
who had to swallow eels and bugs if they wanted to win a million dollars. If only it was for a million dollars.

Nuts! I'd forgotten to tell Jake what I'd found out online about the GMO controversy. Talking to him often distracted me from whatever I was doing or thinking. I knew he'd be interested, so I printed out a copy to take with me. If we ran out of conversation after making sushi art, at least we'd have something else to talk about. Of course, that wasn't usually what we did when we ran out of conversation. . . .

•   •   •

The first time I visited Jake at his loft in the South of Market area, I was struck by how much the area seemed to change every time I went there. SOMA, once mostly industrial warehouses, factories, residential hotels, and deserted buildings, kept transforming itself thanks to a continual stream of new start-up companies looking for low rents. The run-down sprawl between the Embarcadero and Eleventh Street, Market and Townsend, was now an eclectic collection
of new businesses mixed in with hot nightspots, upscale art galleries, furniture showrooms, trendy restaurants, and the ubiquitous Internet and tech companies that kept popping up.

Many of the older buildings had been retrofitted and converted into lofts and living spaces for those who shunned the typical flats and apartments in the city. The core areas—South Park, the Giants Ballpark area, the MOMA, and Folsom—were no longer referred to as the “wrong side” of the Market Street trolley tracks. Popular restaurants and shops drew locals and tourists, bohemians and business folks, artists and entrepreneurs, hipsters and geeks, gays and straights, offering funky urban charm. Here you'd find such diverse cultural offerings as the Jewish Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and the Cartoon Museum, all within walking distance of each other.

Jake had taken me to several of the more interesting restaurants in the area over the past couple of months. My favorites were the Butler and the Chef, a French bistro with a killer croquet monsieur, the Brickhouse Café, known for its eggs Benedict, and Beard Papa's Divine Dessert, offering hybrid pastry that is a cross between a croissant and a donut. If Jake ever decided to open up a Dream Puff outlet here, the locals would gobble it up.

I drove up to Jake's building and parked on the street, then entered the four-story former warehouse that featured large windows on every floor. I took the elevator to the top floor and stepped into the long
hallway that led to Jake's loft. I recognized two young men who were holding hands as they passed by and we exchanged greetings before I knocked on Jake's door.

The door opened. “You made it!” Jake said, ushering me inside. He was wearing one of his Dream Puff aprons and held a long knife in his hand.

“Planning to kill someone?” I asked, grinning, as I stepped in and slipped off my jacket. “Like Moby Dick, maybe?”

The room smelled of soy sauce and cooked rice. I glanced around the wide-open area that housed the island kitchen and the sparsely appointed living space. Posters of colorful food trucks lined the walls, an obvious nod to his passion. I stole a look upstairs at the bedroom loft and spotted his cat perched on the railing. That would be Brimstone, the Cat from Hell. Jake had found it abandoned by the previous owner and the two now had a distant but respectful relationship.

“Ready?” he asked, calling my attention back to the kitchen. He retrieved a clean apron from a cupboard and placed it over my head, then reached around me and tied it in the back. I had no choice but to kiss him.

“Are you sure
you're
ready?” I asked, heading for the sink to wash my hands in preparation for handling raw fish.

“Hey, this is a piece of cake. You're going to love making sushi.”

I took a deep breath and steeled myself for a lesson in the art of mastering fish rolls. “Bring it on. What
are we going to make first? California roll? Hamachi? Spicy Tuna? Unagi? Fugu?” I'd been reading up in preparation for this.

Jake blinked. “Did you say fugu?”

I nodded. “I heard it was a rare delicacy.”

“It's puffer fish.”

“Yeah?” I said. “So? Maybe you create a new cream puff from it.”

“I don't think so. It contains tetrodotoxin, and it's highly poisonous. You have to be trained and qualified to make fugu, and even then, I wouldn't risk eating it.”