By Friday night, we've tested twelve dishes. Settled on eight. Created systems for prep and plating that even I have to admit are elegant.
Rogan's good at this. Better than I want to acknowledge. He takes chaos and shapes it into something beautiful without losing the energy that makes it alive.
I'm standing in the walk-in, doing a final inventory check before tomorrow's seed swap, when he finds me.
"Ready?" he asks.
"For what?"
"Tomorrow. Controlled chaos. Your people and my food in the same space."
"They're not my people. They're just the community."
"Ivy." He leans against the doorframe. "They're absolutely your people. You built this network. You keep it alive. Tomorrow matters because you made it matter."
My throat tightens. I turn back to my clipboard, checking off carrot varieties I've already counted twice.
"It'll be good," I say. "People are excited. Mayor Elsie's bringing her famous seed collection. Farmer Hank promised to demo saving techniques for the new gardeners."
"And you?"
"I'll be managing the chaos."
"Of course you will." He's calm for a moment. "Thank you. For helping with all this. The catering prep, the planning. I know you've got your own work."
"This is my own work. Keeping local food systems alive. That's what I do."
"Still. Thank you."
I risk a glance at him. He looks exhausted. Happy. Like he's finally found a rhythm that fits.
"Get some sleep," I say. "Tomorrow's a long day."
He leaves. I finish the inventory. Lock up the walk-in and head home to prepare seed packets for the swap.
Saturday morning arrives clear and cold. Perfect weather for gathering. I arrive at the bistro at eight to set up tables and organize the seed library while Rogan preps food in the kitchen.
By nine, the first farmers start trickling in. By nine-thirty, the bistro is packed.
Farmer Hank demonstrates seed-saving techniques at one table while a cluster of new gardeners takes notes. Mayor Elsie holds court near the window, her legendary tomato seedsdrawing admirers like moths to flame. Children run between tables, their parents calling reminders not to mix up the packets.
The air smells like coffee and fresh bread and the particular dusty-green scent of seeds being sorted.
I move through the crowd with my field notebook, answering questions about germination, marking down who needs what for spring planting, connecting people who have surplus with people who need stock.
This is what I work for. This moment. This living exchange of knowledge and care and commitment to the future.
Rogan emerges from the kitchen with trays of food. Nothing fancy. Flatbreads with herbs. Roasted vegetables. Simple things that let the ingredients speak.
People eat and talk and trade. The bistro fills with the kind of warmth that has nothing to do with temperature.
"This is perfect," Maya says, with her phone out. "Look at this. People are already posting. The Heritage Foundation is going to love this authenticity."
I watch Farmer Hank explain companion planting to a young couple while they balance plates of Rogan's food. Watch seeds change hands. Watch the community do what it does best.
Then I see it.
The small crate in the corner. The one I brought from my greenhouse this morning. The crate containing my mother's strain of Purple Cherokee tomatoes, the ones I've been saving for seventeen years. The ones I was planning to distribute today because the seeds are getting old and need fresh growing cycles to stay viable.
