"Who wants the disaster special?"
A kid in a frog backpack raises his hand, bouncing on his toes.
"Me!"
His mom looks horrified. I hand it over anyway.
He takes a bite, grins, and shouts, "This is the best breakfast ever!"
The crowd laughs, warm and genuine, and the tension breaks. People step closer. Someone asks if I'm okay. Another person asks for a plate. The rooster finally shuts up.
I glance across the market, and Ivy's standing by the tomato stand, watching. Her arms are crossed, her clipboard forgotten at her side, and her face is doing something complicated. Not quite a smile. Not quite approval.
But not disapproval either.
She shakes her head, just once, and turns back to her conversation.
I grin, wipe paprika off my hands, and crack another egg.
The show goes on.
The market windsdown around noon. The crowds thin, vendors start breaking down their tents, and I'm scraping the last of the chorizo fat from the skillet when I notice Ivy circling back.
She's got that purposeful walk, the kind that says she's thought something through and made a decision. Her braid swings with each step, and she's tucked the clipboard under one arm like she's off duty now, or at least pretending to be.
I rinse my hands in the water jug, shake them dry. "Back for seconds?"
"Back for information." She stops at the table, one hand resting on the weathered wood. "You asked about local sourcing earlier."
"I did."
"Most chefs don't ask. They just order from wherever's cheapest and call it farm-to-table."
I lean against the table, crossing my arms. "I'm not most chefs."
Her mouth does that thing again, the almost-smile that she fights back. "So you say." She shifts her weight, glances at the nearly empty skillet. "Tell me something. When you say you want to source local, what do you actually mean? Are you talking about radius? County lines? Regional networks?"
"I'm talking about knowing where my food comes from," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I want to meet the people whogrow it. I want to know the names of their farms. I want to understand what grows well here and what doesn't."
She studies me, her green eyes sharp. "Why?"
"Because food tastes better when it comes from somewhere. When it means something." I rub the scar on my jaw, thinking. "My aunt used to say every ingredient tells a story. I want to know the stories here."
Ivy's still for a moment, her fingers tapping against the clipboard edge. Then she says, "How much do you know about heirloom varieties?"
"Enough to know I don't know enough."
"That's more honest than I expected." She sets the clipboard down on the table, flips to a page covered in neat handwriting and small sketches. "Heirlooms are open-pollinated plants that have been passed down through generations. They're not bred for shelf life or shipping durability. They're bred for flavor, for adaptation to specific climates, for resilience."
I lean forward, interested. "And Pine Hollow has these?"
"Pine Hollow has dozens. Tomatoes that only grow well in this valley. Beans that have been saved by the same family for a hundred years. Squash varieties you won't find in any catalog." Her voice shifts, warmer now, less guarded. "The seed program I run exists to preserve them. To keep them in circulation so they don't disappear."
"Why would they disappear?"
"Because farmers retire. Because land gets sold. Because someone decides hybrid seeds are easier and stops saving the old ones." She taps the page, her finger landing on a sketch of what looks like a lumpy tomato. "This is a Hollow Heart. It's a paste tomato that grows nowhere else. The skin's thin, the flesh is dense, and it has this umami depth that makes every sauce taste like it's been simmering for hours."
My mouth waters just thinking about it. "Can I buy some?"
