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"The second is sweeter."

"More sun on that side."

She glances toward the slope. "That changes them this much?"

"Sun. Water. Soil. When you pick them. Everything matters."

She tastes another. "Most people only think about what happens once an ingredient reaches the kitchen."

"Most farmers only worry about getting it there."

Her eyes come to mine. "But you don't."

"No."

Something about that answer holds her attention for a moment. Then she smiles. "Good."

She tastes her way through the rows, asking which varieties hold after harvest and which need to reach a kitchen quickly. I tell her what I know. She tells me what happens after that. Which berries survive heat. Which collapse into sauce. Which need enough acidity to balance something rich. By the time we reach the currants, we aren't talking like a farmer and a chef anymore. We're talking about the same thing from opposite ends.

Maddy picks a red currant before I can warn her. Her face tightens immediately.

I laugh.

She stares at me. "That was vicious."

"It's a currant."

"That was an attack disguised as fruit."

"You're the chef."

"And I know when I've been assaulted."

I laugh again. Then I reach for a black currant. "Try this one."

She gives me a suspicious look before tasting it. Her expression changes. "Oh."

"Different, right?"

"Completely." She takes another. "Earthier. Almost floral." I watch her thinking. "I could do something with this."

"You've said that about almost everything."

"Because everything you grow makes me want to cook. It's inspiring."

The words land somewhere I'm not prepared for. Maddy has already turned toward the blackberry trellis. I follow.

She tastes another berry, then apparently decides she needs to compare it with one of the blueberries again. By the time she turns back toward me, I'm smiling.

She notices. "What?"

"You've got berries all over your face."

Her eyes widen. "I do not."

"You do."

She wipes one cheek. "Better?"