Chapter Eight
Birch
The farmer’s market was my guilty pleasure.
The pack where I was reared grew just about everything we ate and most of what we used.
Crops, meat, honey, flowers, eggs, dairy, everything.
Our kitchens were a hive of activity in summer, preserving everything for winter.
Dried fruits and vegetables, canned goods, jams, jellies, pickles.
I never liked butchering time, but I’d realized since leaving home how much better our animals were treated than the standard US factory farm.
And one of my goals was to never serve an ounce of that meat in any restaurant I owned or had the ability to make decisions for.
I already had a contract with a ranch outside of town for beef, bison, and other red meats, and a chicken farm for eggs and chicken, but one of the things I looked for at the farmer’s market was the fish vendor.
Today, he’d had some trout, which I had the perfect dish in mind for.
This late in the year, it was tricky to pair such a delicate fish with the types of vegetables that were available.
Luckily, I loved a challenge, and as I walked along the rows, I studied the mountains of pumpkins, sweet potatoes, winter squash, and other similar items. Most were too heavy for the meal I had planned.
A month ago, there had been a much wider variety, and I had taken full advantage of that, but now, we were heading into a time when diners would want something rich and cozy.
The meal I wanted would convey the promise of that season with a touch of wistfulness for summer’s passing.
I found some beautiful haricot vert and true baby carrots—not the shaved fakes sold in my stores but the sweet young ones I remembered from the pack garden in spring.
And then the vegetable to tie it all together. Delicata squash.
Of course, I purchased the usual suspects. Figs and apples and some late pears. Grapes. The cheese vendor had some lovely semisoft cheeses that I could put together with the vegetables and some walnuts and serve with port.
Hearty greens like arugula and mizuna, the last of the heirloom tomatoes, hefty and scented with promise, and some other items would make salads with personality.
And a cinnamon roll to eat on the way back. They were pretty ordinary, but the smell got me every time.
It took a few trips to the car, but the sellers were glad to help.
The market would no longer even be open in another month, and it would be trickier to find things I liked, but some of the vendors still had things in storage I could buy.
Everything I served was not local, but I tried.
A tomato shipped from the Southern Hemisphere green in winter was not salvageable served fresh no matter how good the dressing.
I slid into the front seat, grabbed the cinnamon roll and my tablet, and brought up the menu for the day to make some changes. Most of what was planned would stay the same, but some of what I’d bought was so beautiful, I couldn’t wait to serve it.
Most people would have guessed I would never eat a roll like this with raisins and a simple powdered sugar glaze, but it was another blast from the past. My grandmother made similar treats every Sunday morning, and if I closed my eyes and took a big bite, I could almost imagine I was back home in her warm kitchen.
The fire in the woodstove scenting the air.
Cousins spilling in the door for the same reason I was there.
She made big pans of them, claimed it was the only way she got to see her grandchildren.
Remembering now, I was afraid she’d been right.
Most of us were so busy with our lives, we only thought of her when the smell of cinnamon reminded us.
But once we were there, we stayed until the last sticky crumb was devoured, drinking big glasses of cold milk or mugs of cocoa, depending on the weather.
I should have appreciated it more at the time, but it was just our life.
Me, my cousins, and every other kid in the pack.
Because Grandma would turn none of them away hungry.
Cypress had been part of that group, for as long as I could remember.
When the rolls were gone, we’d go back outside to play until dark.
Bliss.
But remembering Cypress always stung a little.
We’d been as close as brothers. Closer than I was to mine, in fact.
And he didn’t have any. At least, not as long as he lived there.
We had our whole lives laid out. We’d grow up and become successful.
I would be a chef, and he would do something with computers.
We’d never seen one close up, but he was sure they were what he’d like.
We were going to share a mate and be a family together with her. Live happily ever after.
By now, we’d have had a couple of young dashing around under our feet.
And then one day, I got up, and he was gone. Him, his parents…well two of them. One of his dads had died. But the rest of them left without a word, and no grown-up would tell me why. Or where they went.
Before I dove into that hole any deeper, I looked up and saw a woman heading in my general direction, pulling a wagon piled over the sides with her purchases. Vegetables, fruits, all sorts of things. Too much for a home cook, unless she had a huge family. Was she another restauranteur in town?
Whatever she did, she was gorgeous. Long blonde hair, a sweet, curvy figure, and a little wrinkle in her forehead that had me wondering why she was so worried.
As she passed close to the car on the way to one parked a few away from mine, I caught a trace of scent, maybe flowers from her wagon, or maybe it was her.
My wolf was instantly enchanted, but before I got more than a look, she had loaded her purchases and was in her car and driving off.
What would I have said anyway? “Is all that food for you and your mate and young?” Maybe she’d be here again next week.
Or maybe I should look at the app and see if I could find someone just for me.