like to hit Pike Place Market early, before the tourists wake up and flood the streets. I shop for fresh fish, handpicked fruits and vegetables, perfectly picked cuts of meat, and select dairy. Everything I need can be found in the best of the best lineup of organic goods. I even grab a few dozen bouquets of flowers to add some ambiance to the kitchen.
I wheel my cart past the fish market, where I just grabbed five pounds of fresh jumbo grilling scallops for today’s class. Herbs, spices, and vegetables are next. Then I fill up on wine, cheese, and bread, all locally prepared in and around Seattle.
Zach may have initially purchased Edible Desire, but it was me who turned his empty studio into something locals would be talking about soon after. Faye called it farm-to-table. I had never sought a term for my style of cooking. I just do it how I always imagined it being done.
When I was younger and my dad was sober enough to cook, he was great at it. To this day, I’ve never tasted a single meal that could compare to his. He had a natural ability to pair ingredients together to bring out mouthwatering flavors in unforgettable meals. It was why Zach’s parents didn’t even hesitate to hire him as a cook in their restaurant years ago.
I’ll never forget when he came home from work one night. He walked through the front door of our apartment with the biggest smile on his face. The Ryans were going to use one of his recipes on the menu from that day forward—fried green tomatoes, my dad’s specialty.
Unfortunately, the reason they were open to new recipes was because business wasn’t great. A few months later, my father stumbled home with a bottle of booze in his hand, signaling the beginning of the end. He’d just been fired. My dad had been on the highest of highs. When it all came crashing down, the fall shook us all.
Everything changed once my dad got laid off. It was the catalyst to many drunken nights where I had to suffer through frequent vomit, police cars, and a father who took care of his addictions instead of taking care of his son. I hated the downward spiral, and I misdirected my anger toward the Ryan family, namely Zach.
Zach was the same age as me, twelve. We shared some classes together, and we got along well when we saw each other. But my life was a walking, talking hell, and I made it my mission to make Zachary Ryan suffer just as much as I was. That carried on for four years. It was a time in my life I’ll forever regret and never stop apologizing for.
Thanks to Coach Reynolds, Zach and I are best friends and business partners. My cooking classes started selling out after the first few months, and it has only felt natural to want to grow things from there. We’ve expanded to include catering, meal-prep deliveries, and private events. The works. Saturdays are my busiest days, and unfortunately Gretta chose today—Saturday—to call in sick again.
I’m pushing the Edible Desire grocery cart I purchased for my daily market runs when I spot Zach jogging across the street to meet me. “Need help?”
“Uh, sure.” I move away from the cart to let him push it. Not because I actually need the help, but because it’s funny to watch one of the NFL’s best pushing groceries around downtown Seattle. Just to be an ass, I hop on the front of the cart as it curves uphill so he can wheel around an extra 230 pounds.
Zach accepts the challenge with a grin and a flex of his arms. Lowering himself to get the leverage he needs to use his legs instead of his back, he starts to push against it like he would a speed sled during football practice. He digs into the sidewalk with his feet and uses his calf muscles to support the weight.
“All right,” I say, jumping off the cart and taking it from him. “Now what the hell are you doing here?”
He stretches his back with a twist at his waist. “I was heading to the training facility and stopped by the kitchen to see you. Then I remembered you’d probably be shopping. Doesn’t your assistant help you with this stuff?”
I huff out an annoyed breath. “Gretta? Yeah. She used to, but she called out sick today.”
Zach shakes his head. “I thought you were going to fire