I playfully slapped his arm and tried not to think about how firm it was. So, so strong.
13
Samaya and Daniel Go to the Market
Ihad Mom drive me to the shelter Saturday since I had to be there so early. Daniel and Andre were in the parking lot when I arrived, loading the baked goods into the back of a white van. Muniba was nearby, talking on her phone.
When the van was loaded, we all hopped in, and Andre drove us to Evergreen Brickworks for the Saturday farmers’ market.
I had only been there a few times before and never so early in the morning. This facility was apparently a former brick factory, hence the name Brickworks, but it had been turned into a green space with ponds, some walking trails, and an outdoor education area. There were a few permanent cafés, and the farmers’ market, which was held in a big open-sided structure with a concrete floor and metal roof. The bright fall sun lit up the area as vendors and farmers set up tables around the perimeter of the space. The farmers had crates of fruits and vegetables, and the other vendors unloaded things like homemade jams and soaps. There were even a few other baked-goods stands.
We draped tablecloths over our tables and started arranging the food on them. In addition to the lemon squares, brownies, scones, and cookies, we had some fancy strudel things that one of the residents hadmade, plus a lot of muffins and cinnamon rolls that Andre had made the day before. We hung a large canvas sign behind the table that said all the proceeds were going to the New Beginnings Family Shelter, with some pictures of smiling families of all races.
“Why isn’t Yasmin in any of those shots?” I asked Andre. “She’s so adorable.”
Andre shook his head. “These are stock photos. We don’t risk putting the faces of our actual residents, past or current, on any of our materials. People have many reasons to be at the shelter, and we want to respect their privacy before anything else.”
Right. Daniel had mentioned that Muniba didn’t let people take pictures at the shelter. It made sense.
Business was steady all morning. Most of the customers were adults my parents’ age or maybe a bit younger. And as expected most, but not all, were white. Farmers’ market crowds usually were. But people were friendly, and many were chatty about the shelter. We sold out of the lemon squares first, which I felt weirdly proud of, even though I hadn’t made this batch. And Daniel’s fruitless oatmeal cookies were the next to go. I was actually having a great time. Andre kept challenging me to figure out the customers’ change without using the calculator (which, of course, I was always able to do), and Muniba was so different when she was away from the shelter. Kind of sillier. More fun. She did the desi thing of asking me my specific South Asian background, and after I told her, she listed about five aunties from my community and asked me if I knew them.
But mostly it was fun because of Daniel. He was so mesmerizing to watch with the customers. Just as friendly and charming as he was with me, but also, so respectful. He wasn’t the slightest bit awkward talking to adults, like many of my friends were. He was natural, kind, and playful.
His dimples were out, of course, since he was smiling so much, and his cheekbones looked like they could cleanly slice a lemon square in half.
“A master baker should never divulge their secrets,” he said when a woman asked for the recipes for the scones. He then leaned close and whispered, “The secret is frozen butter, and very cold hands.”
Ah! That was why Andre had made that comment my first day about Daniel having cold hands. I’d touched his hand a few times when cooking with him, and they had been cold! Our parameters allowed hand-holding on dates, so I’d presumably be holding his hand at some point. Were they always cold?
Daniel smiled at me, clearly noticing that I’d been watching him.
I quickly looked away. I really had to figure out how not to stare at the guy so much.
During a lull in the crowd, Andre insisted Daniel and I take a break. He gave us each a scone and some money and sent us to go find something more lunch-like to eat.
We ended up grabbing some Jamaican beef patties and sat at a table in the eating area at one end of the farmers’ market. The market was still pretty busy, but it was quieter here. The area was set up with about ten folding tables with four chairs at each. It was near the side of the space, so the breeze from the open walls added a bit of a chill.
“This is good,” I said, nibbling on the patty. “The beef patties I get near school are kind of bland. Super spicy, but nothing else going on.”
“I like the patties at Warden Subway Station,” Daniel asked.
I knew that his school was near Warden Subway Station. He’d also told me that his aunt with the bakery lived in Brampton—an hour from where he lived now.
“You ever try those?” he asked.
I shook my head. I wasn’t in the habit of getting food on public transportation.
“Well, we’re going to have to remedy that. The patties there are legendary.” He described the perfect flaky pastry and spicy beef filling in detail, even speculating on the type of fat they used in the pastry and the spices in the filling.
I raised a brow. “You’ve given this a lot of thought. Did you make beef patties at your aunt’s bakery?”
He shook his head. “Nah. She made Filipino empanadas, though. I mostly made the pies there. We even had some Filipino pies, like ube, egg, and coconut. I keep telling Andre he should let me make pies for the bake sales, but he doesn’t think they’d sell well since some of the farmers make them, too. And for some reason, people trust fruit pies made by a white farmer more than a Filipino teenager.”
He had a point. “Maybe if they knew you were a hockey player? People love hockey players,” I suggested.
“That they do. Hey, remember our squares and bars conversation?”
“Uh, yeah? That was the only squares and bars conversation I’ve ever had.”
