A Second Bite at the Apple by Dana Bate Page B

brass knocker to announce my arrival. Flakes of black paint sprinkle to the ground like confetti.
    â€œWell, well, well, look who it is.” He frowns as he glances down at my tote bag, which is filled with a reporter’s notebook, pens, a digital voice recorder, and a small video recorder I bought in college, along with a mini tripod. “You know I’m not paying you extra for this, right?”
    â€œJulie said she’d pick up the tab for the gas.”
    â€œAll this for some dinky newsletter?”
    â€œIt isn’t dinky. Apparently the subscriber list is huge. You should be thrilled—your profile will be front and center.”
    â€œDo I look like the kind of person who gets thrilled?” I stare at him blankly. “Exactly,” he says. “Come on—let’s get to work.”
    I follow Rick around the front of the house and continue onto a crushed gravel path, which leads to a converted barn adjacent to the main farmhouse. Like the main house, the outside of the barn is made of white clapboard and, also like the main house, appears to be falling apart. But as Rick slides open the thick, black barn door, the glint of stainless steel and bright lights catches my eye as the interior of the bakehouse comes into view. Glistening, rectangular stainless steel tables fill the room, which is lined with wire bakers’ racks, fancy ovens, proofing racks, and dozens of scales, scoops, and plastic tubs. Two mixers sit in the back corner, both so large I could fit inside the mixing bowl and still have room for a friend. There are baskets and barrels of flour and more mixing bowls than I’ve ever seen. And unlike the rest of the property, which seems to be on the verge of collapse, the inside of the barn is immaculate.
    â€œWow, Rick—this is amazing.”
    â€œFor the amount it cost me, it’d better be. I’ll be paying off the loans on that oven until I die.” He points across the room to an enormous metal contraption that is attached to a wide chimney at the back of the barn.
    â€œIs that a wood-fired oven?”
    â€œYou bet your tits it is.”
    I’d rather not involve my tits in any of today’s happenings. Frankly, when it comes to Rick, I’d like to keep my tits to myself.
    Rick gives me a quick tour of the bakehouse and a brief history of his business. He started Wild Yeast a decade ago, but before that he’d been baking for more than two decades, having spent time in France learning from many of the bread-baking greats: Lionel Poilâne, Bernard Ganachaud, Jean-Luc Poujauran. He has served his bread to four US presidents and two dictators, and in recent years, he has toyed with the idea of milling his own grain.
    â€œBut unless a wad of cash drops from the sky, that ain’t happening,” he says.
    â€œI heard Green Grocers might start selling more local products. Maybe it’ll be a windfall for you.”
    â€œDoubtful,” he says. “And even if it were, I’m in debt up to my eyeballs. Between the loans for this damn bakehouse and the bills for my wife’s surgery, it’ll take a freaking miracle to get me out of this hole.”
    â€œI didn’t realize your wife was sick.”
    More to the point, I didn’t realize Rick had a wife. That poor woman. Either she is some sort of masochist, or she is as batshit crazy as he is.
    â€œShe isn’t sick. The old cow needed a knee replacement. I’ve needed a hip replacement for years, but she got her surgery first. We lost our health insurance, so Lord knows when we’ll be able to afford mine. I used to be a much nicer guy before my hip started hurting like hell.”
    â€œAh,” I say. For the sake of humanity, someone get this man a hip replacement immediately.
    â€œAnyway,” he says, “enough business talk. I thought you wanted to bake bread.”
    â€œI do. Let me just . . .”
    I pull out my video camera and tripod