Laughter. A child's voice protesting that rain is wet.
"Exactly. So is oil. Which is why we measure."
I kneel in the dirt, positioning the first plant. The stems are thin but the root system looks healthy. These flowers shouldn't be here. They're supposed to grow wild in high meadows, not near towns. But they'd found their way to the barn somehow, hiding under the eaves where the roof leaked just enough to keep them alive.
Survivors.
I tamp soil around the base and reach for the next one.
The door swings open. Lila peers out, her face smudged with what looks like tomato sauce.
"Miss Ivy, Chef Rogan says the heirloom tomatoes taste different than regular ones. Is that true?"
"Very true. Come here." I wave her over and she crouches beside me, careful not to step on the flat. "See these flowers?"
She nods.
"They're heirlooms too. Not food, but still important. They've been growing in this area for longer than your grandparents have been alive. Maybe longer than the town."
"Why do they matter if you can't eat them?"
"Because they belong here. Because they're part of what makes this place special. And because taking care of things that can't take care of themselves is how we build a home."
Lila considers this. Her brow furrows in a way that reminds me of myself at her age.
"So the flowers are like the seeds in your program."
"Exactly like that."
She grins and dashes back inside, yelling something about telling the other kids.
The door swings shut. Through the window I can see Rogan moving between workstations, adjusting a child's grip on a wooden spoon, nodding approval at someone's chopping technique. He's wearing the old apron, the one his aunt left him. The leather is dark with wear and spotted with stains that won't come out.
He looks happy.
Not the manic energy he had when he first arrived, all flash and noise and desperate motion. This is steadier. Rooted.
I plant the last wildflower and sit back on my heels. My knees ache. My hands are caked with dirt that's worked its way under my nails and into the creases of my palms.
It feels right.
The class wraps up around six. Parents trickle in to collect their kids, each child clutching a small container of the tomato sauce they made. Rogan stands at the door, high-fiving and accepting hugs with the ease of someone who's found his rhythm.
When the last family leaves, he locks the door and flips the sign to closed.
The bistro falls quiet.
He finds me still kneeling by the flowers, brushing loose soil back into the flat.
"You've been out here the whole time."
"Someone had to make sure they survived the transplant." I push to my feet, knees protesting. "How'd the class go?"
"Chaotic. Messy. Perfect." He takes my hands, examining the dirt. "The Mendoza kid has knife skills that put most line cooks to shame. And Lila asked if we could do a fermenting class next month."
"She's eight."
"She's ambitious." He tugs me toward the door. "Come inside. I saved you some sauce."
