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A Second Bite at the Apple

Book by Dana Bate · 17 quotes · Baked Goods, Little Sister, Muffins

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A Second Bite at the Apple Quotes

“Oh, that's just what I need. To wait on all of my friends at Macy's." "So what? You guys need the money, right?" "There are jobs, and then there are jobs." "You're talking to a girl who is working at a farm stand so that she can chase her dream job." "That's different." "Oh, yeah? How? Last I checked, Libby wanted you to spend two thousand bucks on chairs. Where's that money coming from?" She sighs. "You and your father are all burned up about those chairs. Poor Libby." "Poor Libby?" Classic. My mom always takes Libby's side. When Libby got a bad grade on an exam or paper, my mom would claim the teacher was incompetent, even when I'd had the same teachers and had aced their classes. When Libby's field hockey tournament was the same weekend as my clarinet recital, my mom chose Libby's tournament because, she said, Libby needed her support more than I did. And when Libby and her girlfriends ate the chocolate mousse I made as part of a project for French class senior year, my mom said it was my fault for leaving it in our refrigerator without a note. How was Libby to know? "Mom, Libby lives in fantasyland. And anyway, if you cared so much about getting her damn chairs, you'd take a job at the gas station if you needed to." I catch myself. "I take that back. If Libby cares so much about the damn chairs, she should get a job at the gas station." She clicks her tongue. "Sydney." "What? Maybe it's time for Libby to grow up and realize she needs to take responsibility for things.”

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“I head back to my apartment, but not before popping into a small creperie for a Nutella, banana, and coconut crepe because, let's be honest, I'm only human. The shop sits a few doors down from Peregrine Espresso, and even though I spend most days surrounded by flaky croissants and fudge brownies, God help me, I still cannot resist the siren song of a sweet Nutella crepe. I order it to go, but I dive in before I even leave the store because Nutella is my kryptonite. The rich chocolate hazelnut spread oozes from within the sweet eggy crepe, each bite filled with fresh bananas and bits of toasted coconut.”

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“I unload the almond poppy seed muffins into a cloth-lined basket, and their sweet, vaguely nutty perfume fills the air. Unlike his sturdy raisin bran muffins, which are dense, dark, and chockablock with plump raisins, the almond poppy seed muffins are delicate and cakey, their crumb so light and tender they threaten to float out of the basket. When Rick isn't looking, I sneak a bite of one of the broken muffin tops, and before I know it I've eaten the entire thing, the flavor as rich as the texture is light, bursting with sweet almond essence.”

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“I make another trip to Rick's bakehouse to show people how he makes his pain au chocolat, that magical, flaky pastry filled with heavenly bites of chocolate. I shoot video of Rick laminating croissant dough, rolling and flattening and folding the butter-filled slab of pastry until the dough is as long as a beach towel and stratified with butter like canyon rock. He cuts it into rectangles and stuffs each one with two fat chunks of bittersweet chocolate inside. He bakes off five sheets in his convection oven, and when the croissants emerge, their golden tops glistening, I have to restrain myself from reaching out from behind the camera to stuff three or five into my face. As soon as the newsletter goes out the next week, Rick's customer base goes crazy. People line up and down the market thoroughfare, undeterred by the stifling July heat, clamoring for flaky pain au chocolat and crusty sourdough loaves. Day after day, he sells out everything at least thirty minutes before closing, and the chocolate croissants sell out in the first hour.”

BakingPastriesSocial Media BrandingFilmingSelloutNewsletterPain Au ChocolatSpread The Word
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“She rolls her eyes. "Great. Another shady loser. Just what you need." "People make mistakes, Libby. No one is perfect." She cackles loudly. "This coming from Miss Perfectionist." "Hey---that isn't fair. I'm far from perfect." "Oh, I know. Trust me, I've seen your closet." "Yeah, well, maybe if Mom took me shopping all the time, my closet would look more like yours." Libby shrinks back from the screen defensively. "Mom takes me shopping because we both like to shop. You hate shopping. You always have." "Or maybe I never felt welcome." "What? That's crazy. You were always welcome. You never wanted to come." "That's not how I remember it." Libby pulls her hair into a low ponytail. "You always think I get special treatment from Mom and Dad." I let out a huff. "Uh, maybe because you do?" "That's totally untrue. Like with the wedding? Dad is refusing to pay for those chairs, and he isn't budging." "I'd hardly call that an act of cruelty. They're chairs. Their main function is to serve as a resting place for your ass." "No, their main function is to look beautiful." "Perhaps you are unfamiliar with what a chair does...”

Self AbsorbedLittle SisterSpoiled Brat
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“I've come to realize my market gig is like therapy for me. I've always loved being surrounded by food, but what I have come to cherish most at these markets is the sense of community. I know Frank the cheese guy and Barbara the mushroom lady. I swap muffins for raspberry jam with Josie at Jefferson Family Farms and ciabatta for apples with Maggie and Drew at Broad Tree Orchards. They've started to accept me as one of their own, at a time when I could use the company.”

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“Steam rises from the surface, smelling of soy and ginger and hot peppers. A fried egg sits atop the slices of braised pork, the golden yolk loose and glistening in the light of the candles. A thick layer of white rice covers the bottom of the bowl, sopping up the rich, porky juices. "So what exactly is this? Bibimbap?" "Similar. It's a riff on a Japanese dish---donburi. Meat and an egg with rice.”

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“When I visit Maggie's farm on Monday, she takes me from field to field in her pickup truck, showing me the fruit they just started harvesting for the summer markets: yellow Sentry peaches, white nectarines, red plums, baby apricots. We spin past patches of Chantenay carrots and orchards of Honeycrisp apples, both of which they'll pick later in the season, after the raspberries, the canes already bursting with ruby and gold fruit. Back in April, the peach trees bore masses of fluffy, sweet-smelling pink blossoms, but now dozens of fuzzy, round fruits hang from their branches like Christmas ornaments, the ripe ones so juicy you can't eat them without wearing a bib.”

FruitsFruit TreesVarietiesFresh ProduceOrchard Farming
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“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 perfect balance between crispy and chewy. Every bite is perfumed with vanilla and just a touch of cinnamon, and I can see why Rick sells out at every market.”

RaisinsOatmeal CookiesSellout
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“I've never worked here before. I'm just filling in for a friend--- which, by the way, I wouldn't have needed to do if you hadn't ruined everything and forced us to eat at Taco Bell." "I didn't force you to eat anywhere. And, anyway, after last night, I'm surprised you have the energy to fill in for anyone." "After last night, I'm surprised you think I'd have any interest in talking to you.”

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“My stomach growls as I think about the beignets I ate that day, those magical deep-fried pillows of dough, covered in half an inch of powdered sugar. The exterior was crisp and golden, and when I took a bite--- the airy, cloud-like interior still warm from the deep fryer--- the powdered sugar fell into my lap like snow. I'd known the beignet was a cousin of the doughnut, but somehow without the hole in the middle, it managed to surpass any notion I had of what a doughnut could be.”

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“If there is a small silver lining to my continued unemployment, it is that I have increased my hours at the farmers' market, where I am surrounded by people who love growing and making food as much as I love eating, reading, and writing about it. Every market brings with it a new sensory adventure: the toothsome crunch of Rick's millet muffins, the brazen tang of his sourdough, the sharp and herbaceous scent of his cheddar dill scones. Instead of trying to force a food connection like I did at The Morning Show, I now live and breathe an agricultural smorgasbord on an almost daily basis, poring over luscious apples and lumpy, bumpy squash and fat loaves of buttery brioche. In a strange way, despite the meager pay, I finally feel as if I'm where I belong.”

ProduceBaked GoodsLove Your JobFarmers MarketFoodie Business
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“You don't even know me anymore," I say. "Sydney, I know you better than almost anyone. Certainly better than this clown." "Hey!" Jeremy lunges for Zach again, but I push him back with my arm. "Well, I would hope someone who dated me for eight freaking years would know me a little better than someone who's dated me for a few months," I say. "But he knows me now---the Sydney who worked in TV news and lost her job and works at the farmers' market and had her heart broken by a guy who cheated on her with some bimbo named Georgina. You don't know that Sydney. You gave up on her a long time ago.”

Better Than YouPast Relationship
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“The two of us begin assembling pulled pork sandwiches from the ingredients in the containers, layering the jalapeño-lime slaw on top of piles of chipotle pork and capping it off with a fluffy white bun. The sandwiches are smoky and spicy, with a slight tang from the slaw, and we wash them down with hefty swigs of our full-bodied porter. Between bites, Jeremy hands me a fork and the container of Yukon gold and purple potato salad, which we pass back and forth until there is nothing left but a few scallions in a pool of mustard-laced vinaigrette.”

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“Do you come from a family of cooks?" I ask as I rasp the cheese against the prickly grater, trying to distract myself from the familiar smells and sounds. "Kind of. My grandma used to be an amazing cook. Her mother had emigrated from Alsace-Lorraine, so she knew how to make all of these incredible French-German dishes---curly endive salad with bacon dressing, sausages with sauerkraut, green bean stew with potatoes and bacon. When I'd come to visit for lunch, she'd make me radish sandwiches on white bread with salt and butter." "Sounds like the answer is yes, then." "Not exactly. That was my dad's mom. My mom's mom stored cereal and wine in her oven.”

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