"Not yet. They're not in season until July." She flips the page, shows me another sketch. "But this is a Purple Moon radish. It's ready now. Sweet, peppery, beautiful purple streaks through the flesh. Grows fast, stores well, and tastes incredible raw or roasted."
"Where do I get it?"
"Farmer Hank grows them. He's at the north end of the market." She pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Fair warning, he's not a fan of city chefs. You'll have to win him over."
"Story of my life," I say, grinning.
She almost smiles again, then catches herself and flips the clipboard closed. "I'm not trying to make your life difficult, Rogan. I'm trying to make sure you don't mess up what we've built here."
"I get that." I meet her eyes, let the grin fade into something more serious. "I'm not here to mess anything up. I'm here to make this place work. And I can't do that if I don't understand the land and the people who work it."
She holds my gaze, searching for something. Then she reaches into her satchel and grasps a small paper envelope, the kind with a wax-paper window. Inside, I can see seeds, dark and irregular.
"Purple Moon radish," she says, setting it on the table between us. "Plant them shallow, keep them watered, and they'll be ready in three weeks. Use them in your soft opening if you want."
I grab the packet, turn it over. Her handwriting's on the back, neat and precise:Raphanus sativus, Purple Moon. Saved 2023.
"This is a test, isn't it?"
"Everything's a test." She slings the satchel over her shoulder. "But yes. I want to see if you actually care enough to grow something yourself. Most chefs wouldn't bother."
"I'm not most chefs," I say again, pocketing the seeds carefully in my apron, the same pocket where I keep the note from my aunt.
"We'll see." She turns to leave, then glances back over her shoulder. "And Rogan? Move the burner before next week. I meant it about the fire hazard."
She walks away before I can answer, her boots crunching over the gravel, her braid swinging.
I stand there holding the seed packet, feeling the promise and the challenge wrapped up in something smaller than my thumb.
Maya reappears, arms full of root vegetables she bartered for with leftover chorizo. "Did she just give you homework?"
"She gave me radish seeds."
"That's definitely homework." Maya dumps the vegetables into a crate, dusting off her hands. "You know you're going to have to actually plant those, right? She'll check."
"I know."
"And you'll have to not kill them."
"I know."
Maya grins, wide and delighted. "This is going to be hilarious."
I tuck the seeds deeper into my pocket and start packing up the burner.
I'm loadingthe last crate into the truck when a voice stops me.
"Excuse me. Are you Rogan Thorn?"
I turn. The woman standing behind me is maybe fifty, dressed in tailored jeans and a blazer that's too nice for the farmers market. Her hair's silver and cut sharp, her glasses perched on her head like a headband. She's holding a smallleather notebook and a pen that probably costs more than my skillet.
"That's me."
She extends a hand. "Margot Linden. I write forClearwater Eats."
My brain stalls for half a second.Clearwater Eatsisn't some local food blog. It's the regional magazine. The one that makes or breaks restaurants within a hundred-mile radius. Chefs frame their reviews. Diners plan trips around their recommendations.
I shake her hand, trying to keep my face neutral. "Good to meet you."
