"You're welcome. Also, I checked the Purple Cherokee seeds. Viability testing came back at ninety-two percent. We're good for spring planting."
"That's great."
"It is. And speaking of spring planting, I need to borrow your truck Saturday to pick up compost from the cooperative."
"My truck doesn't have a truck bed."
"I meant Maya's truck."
"Still no truck bed," Maya says.
"Then whose truck are we using?"
"We'll figure it out," I say. "Right now we're training temps and managing supply disasters."
Ivy nods. Surveys the kitchen. Takes in the practiced stations and the laminated instruction cards and the teens who look half-dead from repetition.
"You're doing good work," she says quietly.
"We're surviving."
"Same thing sometimes."
She's right. Survival is good work when the alternative is giving up.
The temps finish their fifteenth round of plating. This time Samantha gets it right. Perfect distribution, confident placement, forty-eight seconds start to finish.
"There," I say. "That's what I wanted."
She beams.
Ivy watches from the doorway. Doesn't interrupt, doesn't correct, just observes.
When the temps finally leave, exhausted and blistered and slightly improved, it's just the three of us in the kitchen.
"Four more days," Maya says.
"Four more days," I agree.
Ivy picks up a practice plate. Studies the composition. "You're going to pull this off."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm cautiously optimistic. Which for me is practically euphoric."
I start breaking down the stations. Wiping counters, storing mise, resetting for tomorrow's chaos.
My phone dings. Text from the microgreen farm.
Confirmed for Thursday delivery. Twelve heads, best we've got.
I show Maya. She updates the spreadsheet.
"We're really doing this," she says.
"We're really doing this."
Ivy's still holding the practice plate. "Your aunt would be proud."
