As I was dragging a mess of cut vines back toward the trash heap, something caught my eye. Something that had been part of the backyard for so long that it was just part of the scenery: the old Airstream trailer, parked behind a row of straggly pines.
It had belonged to my grandfather, who’d used to it to travel the country on the original hippie train, Woodstock not being far from Bailey Falls. After he passed away, it was put out to pasture. It was always far down on the list of things to do, with something else always taking priority for where to spend those few extra dollars each month, and it gradually became a giant starting-to-rust elephant in the backyard, so big it was unnoticeable.
But today I noticed it, and went in for a closer look. I’d always thought these old trailers were kind of beautiful, in a retro kitschy kind of way. Very Rosie the Riveter meets the open road. But this one was half covered by weeds and listing to one side on bald tires, doubtless a home for critters as well. Someday it could be fun to look inside the trailer, but not today.
I returned to my garden work, finished it up, and then headed inside. After my mother’s constant chatter for the last week or so, the small house felt big and empty.
Another day, another breakfast rush. I kept my eyes and ears open as I worked my first managing shift at the diner the next day. The employees had mostly been there for years and the place really was capable of running itself, but I knew why my mom wanted someone in charge. It was her baby, it had been her father’s baby, and she was hoping it would one day be mine, no matter how many times I’d told her pigs would fly first. But that was a thought for another day; I had a breakfast shift to run. So I played short order cook, cracking eggs and slapping toast down for Adam and Eve on a raft, wrecked.
A steady flow of orders, constant gossip from the people doing the ordering, three burned fingers, two quarreling waitresses, and one very small grease fire later, I had successfully made it through the breakfast. And found myself once more on the business end of a potato peeler.
Concentrating on the perfection that would become my steak fries, I almost didn’t hear the back door opening. But this time the farmer was smart enough to announce himself before spuds went flying.
“Are you armed?”
I peeked over my shoulder to see Leo, wearing a teasing grin. I answered it with my own and held my hands up in the air, potato in one and peeler in the other.
“I am; you may not want to come much closer,” I said very seriously. I nodded toward the basket on top of the boxes he was carrying. “I can’t believe you brought nuts to a potato fight.”
“I’ll admit it didn’t go well for me last time,” he said, walking over to my station and setting down the boxes he was carrying. “Or it went very well for me last time, depending on the point of view.”
“Point of view is important,” I said, setting down my peeler. He was closer than I expected and I found myself staring up into the incredible green eyes, bright and curious. “So what did you bring me today?”
Without taking his eyes from mine, he thumped lightly on the stack of boxes. “Lettuce—a few different kinds, including a new blush variety. Big mess of fennel and garlic bulbs. Leeks, celery, and a big fat rutabaga. And a special treat, the first strawberries.” He lifted a small paper bag from the top of the pile, opened the top, and I peered inside. Nestled at the bottom were a handful of plump strawberries, pinky red and speckled with fragrant green leaves.
“Mmm.” I breathed in. “That smells like summer.”
“Doesn’t it?” he answered, pulling out one of the tiny fruits. “It’s a new variety we’re trying this year—brown sugar strawberries. A low yield so far, but it’s about the sweetest strawberry I’ve ever tasted.”
“Yeah?” It looked the same as every other one I’d ever seen.
“Go on. Try it,” he said, offering me the strawberry.
“I don’t take candy from strangers.”
“It’s not candy, and we’re not strangers. We painted together.”
“And fell down a few times.”
“Exactly,” he nodded, holding it out once more. “Put this in your mouth.”
“That’s exactly what a stranger might say,” I said, but opened up.
He dropped it onto my tongue, his eyes crinkling when I let out the tiniest sigh.
“That’s a great fucking strawberry.”
“I like to think so,” he replied. We looked at each other exactly two seconds longer than was necessary, then moved on.
“So what’s with all the walnuts?” I asked, looking at the big basket.
“There’s an old grove on the property, and we’re always rolling in them. So I started adding them to the foodshare, and people love them.”
Suddenly inspired, I said, “I’ll make a black walnut cake! I haven’t made one in ages, and I could make a few, based on how many nuts you’ve brought me.”
“I feel like so many of our conversations have been nut based,” he said.
I tilted my head sideways, my thoughts drawn back from visions of thick frosting to the very handsome farmer in front of me. “Agreed. How can we change that?”
“You wanna come see my farm?”
“Hell yes. Should I bring some walnut cake?”
He nodded, and I made him feed me another strawberry.
Summer lovin’, happened so fast . . .
After the lunch shift, I got out some cake pans and went to work. I’d found the recipe in an old church cookbook that I came across at a flea market when I was in school. I frequented them and garage sales for exactly this kind of thing—especially old cookbooks from bake sales and church socials. Spiral bound and usually well used, they contained recipes that stood the test of time. Meat loaf, chicken and dumplings, brisket—they were still around for a reason. But I particularly loved the desserts, especially the cakes. Good old-fashioned cakes like triple coconut. Hummingbird. Spice. Black walnut.