The sky had turned completely gray, but a stand by the side of the road in front of a majestic red barn with white trim made up for it. I gawped at the bright colors and the neatly placed vegetables, the rows of spring flowers, the bushels of apples. “Is this your first time in New Jersey?” a woman asked. She was about my age but taller, long brown hair, guileless eyes surrounded by smart lines when she crinkled her nose. “It’s quiet now, but in a couple of months we’ll have all the fruit and vegetables you can imagine. Corn and tomatoes are the big draw. This place’ll be hopping. On weekends we get sold out before noon. People come from all over, and we sell in the farmer’s market on Fourteenth Street in Manhattan. Jams and breads, too. You ever been there?” “Sure,” I lied. I’m not much of a homemaker, as you might have noticed. I barely know how to boil water and my oven shines like a cathedral dome. “Pays to come out here, though. Fresher stuff than what we truck to Manhattan.
