Love, Life And Linguine Part 7

"Yes," Mrs. Hunter says. "Mimi. She's a friend of yours," she tells Joe.

Without confirming or correcting his mother, Joe leans down and kisses Mrs. Hunter's forehead.

Joe leads me through the house and out the back door. The planting rows begin a quarter of a mile from the Hunters' back door. The first few rows are strawberry plants. They hunch close to the ground, their growth stunted by the weight of hanging strawberries. Beyond the strawberries lies furrowed ground with greenery popping out of the brown dirt. Following Joe past the strawberry plants, I inhale. The air is sweet. It smells red.

A dog of indeterminate breed bounds out of a shed and heads straight toward me, barking madly. "Good job," Joe says to the dog. "She's only been here for half an hour."

Laughing, I extend my hand for the dog to sniff. The dog smells my hand, licks it, then rolls onto his back and squirms around on the ground, his canine member quite noticeably erect. It flops from side to side as the dog squirms.

Joe shakes his head. "This is not the way to impress a woman. How many times have I told you? You gotta play it cool, son."

"Does he do this with all the girls?"

"No," Joe says. "Just the pretty ones."

Well, now. A flirtatious farmer.

Walking toward the greenhouses, Joe slows his pace to walk beside me and explain the system for the farm. "The greenhouses used to be for baby lettuces," he says. "The farm specialized in that stuff for a few years. Do you know about baby lettuce?"

Do I know about baby lettuce? "Yes."

Joe nods. "My dad built these greenhouses to grow baby lettuces, but it turned out to be too labor-intensive to be profitable. You have to snip the beds of lettuce every other day, put the lettuce in airtight plastic, and get it to the customer within twelve hours before it starts to wilt." Joe shakes his head. "Sissy food."

Stopping at the door to the greenhouse, Joe turns and looks down at me, narrowing his eyes and smiling. "Please don't tell me you came here for baby lettuce."

"No," I laugh. "No sissy food for me."

"Whew." Joe holds open the door of the greenhouse. Into the gaseous hothouse we go. Joe starts explaining the photosynthesis that is taking place in the greenhouse. From working with other farmers, I already know about accelerating the growth of plants. But I don't interrupt Joe. His voice is lyrical and reedy, and he obviously enjoys explaining his work.

"I'm using the greenhouses to grow small batches of produce and experiment with them before I plant big crops of them. See? These are heirloom tomatoes."

"Pretty," I say, knowing full well what heirlooms are. "But if you grow them in greenhouse conditions, how can you be sure that the plants will thrive in the outdoors?"

Joe smiles. "If I treat the earth right, she might tell me her secrets."

Joe shows me the other greenhouses, and the barn. The barn is dark, the warm sun seeping through slats in the wood. Peeking into bins and barrels, I say, "Nice ramps. Those are great-looking morels. Are those the last of the fiddleheads? I might have to steal them. Fiddleheads, ramps, morels, and a nice piece of halibut. Sounds like supper."

Joe smiles. "You have an educated palate."

"I eat a lot."

Joe looks me up and down. "Wouldn't know it."

Walking to the side of the barn, I spot bins of freshly cut herbs. Holding a bunch of herbs to my nose, I say, "Chervil?"

"Good call," Joe says.

"Let's see. I could add garlic to the chervil, hit it with white wine, kiss it with fresh tomato sauce, and drizzle it over my halibut."

"Are you flirting with me?" Joe says.

"What? No."

Joe says, "What time should I come over for dinner?"

"Please. I live with my mother."

Joe smiles. "So do I."

That makes me laugh. Joe takes a step toward me. The smell of his sweat overpowers the smell of the chervil. I take a purposeful step backward, then say, "I am impressed with your produce, Farmer Joe. I like it. I like it a lot."

Joe smiles. "I'm glad you're excited about it."

Sheepishly, I say, "It's been a while since I've had good food to play with."

"Play," Joe says. "I like that. Play."

"Cook, I mean."

"I know what you mean." Joe leans against the wall of the barn and I see the sinewy muscles of his arms.

The diva whispers something that I choose not to hear.

Walking half a mile back to the shed which serves as his office, Joe tells me about ordering and delivery procedures. We walk past a shed filled with barrels. The barrels are marked with the names of some of the best restaurants in Philadelphia. "What's in there?" I ask.

"We have special arrangements with some restaurants," Joe says. "Chefs want items grown specifically for them. A certain color potato, or fruit picked at a certain time. My dad started the service. I'd like to discontinue it, but we make a lot of profit from it." Joe walks past the shed and continues to his office. He hasn't bragged about having chichi restaurants as clients. I like that.

In his office, Joe hands me order forms and a credit application. "If you decide to work with us, fax all this c.r.a.p back to me," he says. "Or bring it back personally."

Joe walks me around the house, toward Sally. "Is that your car?"

"Yep."

He puts his hands in the pockets of jeans. "Mustang GT with a Shelby scoop, flared deck lid, and front valance. A 1966?"

"Yes, sir. Four-speed Toploader transmission and a 289 HIPO engine."

Joe looks me up and down. "You like Mustangs?"

"I like this one." I get behind the wheel.

"Well," Joe says. "If you drive a car like this, you must be some kinda woman."

"You judge people by the cars they drive?"

"Always." Joe smiles.

"So what do you drive?"

Joe grins. "A tractor."

Driving away from Hunter Farm, I can't get the smell of Joe's sweat out of my nose. His sweat smelled like onions. No. Leeks. No. Scallions.

He's quite manly, the diva says. Earthy. Yummy.

That may be, but do I want to date a farmer? Think of the mud.

Yes, the diva says. Think of the mud.

No, don't think of the mud. Don't think about him at all. Did I learn nothing from Nick? There needs to be more to a relations.h.i.+p than physical attraction.

The diva doesn't answer.

Pie On my way back to Cafe Louis, I call Madeline. It's three o'clock and she's leaving work. "What do you know about Joe Hunter from Hunter Farm?" I ask.

"He died," Madeline says.

"Not the father," I say. "The son."

"There's a son?"

Big help she is. "What's new with you?"

Madeline says, "I broke up with the lawyer."

"What happened?"

"The other night, he came into the bedroom with a can of Reddi-wip. He wanted to put it on me and lick it off. I said, 'First of all, I'm a chef. I'm covered in food all day. It's not a turn-on for me. Secondly, I'm a pastry chef. No one is putting some cheap-a.s.s, canned whipped cream on me.'"

"And he took offense to that?"

Madeline ignores my sarcasm. "Tonight I'm going out with a guy I met during The Book & The Cook preview party. He's a civilian, not a chef. I should tell him the whipped cream rule before he goes and gets any ideas."

"A whipped cream conversation on a first date?"

Madeline says, "I slept with him after the party, so this is our second date."

"Madeline."

"You know me," she says. "I'm as easy as pie."

100 Simple Rules for Dating My Mother When I get home from the restaurant that night, Mom's car is in the driveway. "Mom?" I call when I walk in the door. There's no answer. "Mom?" I walk through the condo. Mom isn't home. I take off my dirty restaurant clothes and get in the shower to wash away the smell of grease.

Thirty minutes later, it's 10 P.M P.M. and Mom still isn't home. It's strange that her car is here but she isn't. I call Mom's cell phone. It rings, but she doesn't answer, so I leave a voice mail for her to call me.

At 11 P.M P.M., I get mildly concerned and call Jeremy. My brother does a full-on freak. "What if she went out with some Internet pervert? Who has she been e-mailing?"

"I don't know," I say.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't invade her privacy," I say. "And I'm trying to ignore the fact that she is dating."

"You live with her, Mimi. I thought you were going to be responsible." Jeremy turns his mouth from the phone and I hear him say, "Allison, I told you that it's a bad idea for Mom to date."

"Ease up on the panic, Jeremy. I didn't call to alarm you. I called to see if she was at your house. Don't worry. Mom will turn up eventually."

"Eventually?" Jeremy says. "That's not good enough. I'm coming over, and if we don't hear from Mom by midnight, we'll call the police."

At 11:45 P.M P.M., the front door opens. Jeremy says, "Mom? Is that you? Are you okay?"

"Jeremy?" Mom says. "What are you doing here?" As an answer, Jeremy wraps Mom in a bear hug. Mom looks confused, but returns his hug.

"Mimi?" she says. "What's going on?"

Hands on my hips, I say, "You've got some explaining to do."

Mom sits at the kitchen table, hanging her head. Jeremy and I stand, arms folded across our chests. "You're right," Mom says. "I'm sorry."

Mom was at the Phillies game with Sid. The game went into extra innings. Because of the noise of the stadium, Mom didn't hear her phone ring.

"I was a little worried. Jeremy was doing a full-on hissy dance."

"If you're going to date," Jeremy says, "you need to be more responsible."

"You're right," Mom says for the tenth time.

"We should make some ground rules," I suggest. "So we're all on the same page."

"Good idea," Jeremy says, and proceeds to make the rules. "The first rule is that you tell Ally, me, or Mimi where you are going and with whom."

"Okay," Mom says.

"Also," Jeremy says. "You should take your own car on dates until you've been out with someone a few times."

Mom laughs. "That's a little silly."

"It's not silly, Mom," I say. "Do you know how many stories I've heard about psychos on the Internet?"

Mom waves her hand in the air. "These are old Jewish men."