Read Online A Second Bite at the Apple by Dana Bate - Free Book Online Page B

store when there are dozens and dozens of varieties out there.”
    Libby fakes a snore. “Only kidding,” she says. “It was actually kind of interesting. Needed a recipe, though. Or are you still on your cooking strike?”
    â€œIt isn’t a cooking strike.”
    â€œOh, really? When was the last time you actually cooked something other than Easy Mac?”
    I consider her question and come up blank. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
    â€œYou can’t remember because it’s been years. Four years and seven months, if I had to guess.”
    â€œLibby . . .”
    â€œIt’s just weird. All through high school, we couldn’t get you out of Zach’s kitchen, and now you won’t set foot in one.”
    â€œThat isn’t true,” I say.
    â€œYou’re right: In high school, you wouldn’t really cook in Mom’s kitchen either. So I guess now you’ve just extended the policy across the board.”
    â€œJesus, Libby, would you lay off?”
    â€œI’m just saying.”
    Libby is always “just saying.” The phrase is one of her most annoying retorts. But she isn’t entirely wrong. In high school, Zach’s was the only kitchen in which I spent much time, mostly because his mom’s gear was so much nicer than mine. But I also felt, from a very early age, that our family kitchen was Mom and Libby’s domain. They always had so much in common—the same hair and eye color, the same cadence in their voices, the same interest in clothes and shopping and soap operas. Over school breaks, the two of them would powwow about what culinary adventure they would take up next, whether it was a chocolate soufflé or a croquembouche, and it was clear their bond over cooking was something I could never be a part of. Whenever I tried to help, I felt like an intruder. So instead of nosing around every time they decided to cook together, I gave up and left them alone, even though, deep down, I wanted to join in the fun.
    â€œAnyway,” Libby says with a protracted sigh, “the main reason I’m calling is to ask if you can come to my tasting at The Rittenhouse in June.”
    â€œIsn’t that for couples and parents only?”
    â€œThey said I can bring anyone I want. And Matt is sort of fussy about food, so I could use your input.”
    â€œIf he’s the groom, though, shouldn’t the menu be something he’d enjoy?”
    â€œIf it were up to Matt, we’d serve chicken fingers and French fries. And that is so not happening.”
    â€œI thought you two were soul mates.”
    â€œWe are. We just have different ideas about wedding food.”
    I glance at the ceiling. “Yeah, okay, I’ll be there. When is it?”
    â€œJune 10—a Friday. I know you’d normally be working that day, but given how all of that is going . . .”
    She trails off. Normally I’d say she was trying to wind me up, as she always does, but considering she wants me to do her a favor, I know it’s just Libby’s typical self-absorption combined with her complete lack of interest in my career.
    â€œI’ll mark my calendar,” I say.
    â€œYay! I’m so excited. And it’ll be even more fun for you because you don’t have to worry about fitting into a wedding dress.”
    â€œThanks for reminding me.”
    â€œI’m just saying,” she replies.
    Of course she is.
    Â 
    The next morning, Rick greets me at the West End farmers’ market with his signature blend of cantankerousness and misogyny.
    â€œHurry up, sweet cheeks,” he bellows from the cavernous interior of the truck. “I don’t have all morning.”
    I meet Heidi beside the loading area and grab a crate of oatmeal raisin cookies. Their sweet, toasty aroma makes my stomach growl. They are nearly five inches in diameter and packed with plump golden raisins and fat rolled oats, the