A Second Bite at the Apple by Dana Bate Page A

at these outdoor markets around town. But this new CEO—Bob Young—is lowering the barriers to entry for a lot of farmers across the country.”
    â€œBut how is that good for you? I mean, if people can buy the same stuff at Green Grocers as they can buy here, why would they bother braving the elements?”
    She nods. “A fair point, which is why it’s taking a while to work out the details. But there is a huge customer base that never comes to the farmers’ market, so this will allow the producers to reach a wider audience. And the people who do come will keep coming because they love the one-on-one interaction with the people who grow and make their food. Plus, the profit margin at our markets is pretty thin, so by giving these guys more of a cushion, it helps us stay in business too.”
    â€œHow do you want me to play it? As a quick news item? A full story?”
    She scrunches up her lips and wiggles them from side to side. “Nothing yet. Our family of DC markets is part of the pilot project, and we’re still working out the details of how all of this would work. Let’s see what happens in the next month or two, and we can go from there. In the meantime, you can start pulling together recipes and profiles.” She grins as Rick hobbles over to my side of the tent. “You can start with Rick—I’m sure he has plenty to share with you.”
    Rick hikes his pants up around his waist and licks his fat lips suggestively. “You bet I do.”
    I ignore his nauseating innuendo and tuck Julie’s notes into my coat pocket. “By the way, what sort of compensation are we talking about . . . ?”
    â€œYou mean how much will I pay? I’m looking at fifty dollars a newsletter, plus reimbursement for any extra costs, like transportation or whatever. It’s not a lot, I know, but it’s all we can manage in the budget for now. And hey, it’s better than nothing, right?”
    I smile politely and nod, but as I look up at Rick, who is eye-raping me as he scratches his balls, all I can think is, I’m not so sure .

CHAPTER 13
    That isn’t fair. Fifty dollars is better than zero dollars. Although when I divide fifty by the hours I’ll need to spend writing and formatting this newsletter, it’s basically slave labor. But at least I can use the columns as clips for an actual food-writing or producing job. By now, the stories I wrote and produced at Northwestern are almost five years old, so having fresh material will make me more employable. At least I hope so.
    The following Monday, I borrow Heidi’s car and drive out to Rick’s bakehouse in West Virginia, about an hour and a half outside Washington, DC. As part of my first profile, Rick agreed to let me visit the place where all of the “magic” happens, but as I turn onto a narrow, bumpy road in what seems to be the middle of nowhere, I sense this afternoon will be anything but magical.
    I bounce along in Heidi’s 1999 Honda Accord, swerving around potholes the size of Texas as I pass seemingly endless stretches of rolling hills and farmland. As I careen around a bend in the road, I spot Rick’s driveway, a dirt lane that winds up a broad hill to a white clapboard farmhouse at the top.
    From a distance, the house looks quaint, a bright white cottage perched atop a grassy knoll, looking down upon the apple orchards and cornfields. But as I get closer, the charm wears off. The roof shingles cling precariously to the top of the house, standing on end like flakes of dandruff. Several of the black shutters hang at a crooked angle, dangling by one corner like loose teeth, and the white clapboard exterior is covered in dust and dirt. It’s what I imagine the “Little House on the Prairie” might look like if it were run by Miss Havisham.
    I pull up beside an old, rusty pickup truck and make my way to Rick’s dusty black front door, where I rap a dingy