Chapter 2

Eight years later, sixteen-year-old Matthew Conner’s clear blue eyes looked out at the world with reserved cynicism.

He knew three things to be true.

1) Nothing is for free, everything comes with a cost.

2) Nobody cares—He was the only person he could count on.

3) Self pity is a curse that makes you weak.

Those three were first among other lessons he had learned the hard way.

Matthew was big for his age, his handsome face marred by crooked nose-twice broken nose from two desperate brawls with a kid named Butch who had stolen his father’s watch. Butch was now serving time in juvie after he stabbed another kid in a fight over who got the top bunk.

They had all learned not to mess with Matthew.

He walked to the Chicago Farmer’s Market from Roosevelt High School, where he excelled despite his circumstances, or maybe because of them. A fifth-grade teacher named Miss Brown had told him over and over that knowledge can’t be taken from you. Meaningful words to a kid who had nothing but a busted pocket watch, a battered recipe book, a tin cup and a distant memory of a magical kitchen.

The late afternoon sun bathed the farmers’ market in a golden light that made the weathered wooden stalls look somehow magical. Matthew adjusted his backpack higher on his shoulder and entered through the east entrance to Mr. Pietro’s flower stand where the Easter lilies and roses perfumed the air.

“Ah, Matty, my young friend!” Pietro called out, his Italian accent still thick in spite of forty years in the United States. “Come, come. I have something new to show you.” He beckoned Matthew closer with gnarled hands stained green from decades of cutting stems.

Matthew approached with his customary wariness, but there was a softness in his eyes reserved only for this place, these people.

“Saffron crocus,” Mr. Pietro said, gesturing to a bucket of flowers with delicate, elongated petals in vibrant orange and yellow. “ The stamens give us the spice saffron. Takes more than fifty thousand of these plants to make a pound of the saffron that turns the risotto golden.”

He always offered Matthew a taste of whatever edible flowers he had. All the long time market venders knew Matthews and his dreams of being a chef.

“Thank you for showing me, Mr. Pietro.” He moved on with a nod, following his usual route.

Next was Mrs. Saanvi’s spice and tea store, a riot of colors and smells that always made Matthew’s heart beat faster. The middle-aged Indian woman was grinding something in a mortar and pestle, the rhythmic scraping a percussion note to the sitar music playing in the background.

“Cardamom,” Matthew said before she could speak, identifying the distinctive scent.

Mrs. Saanvi looked up, her face breaking into a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Right again! You have the nose of a master chef, Matthew.” She set down her work and reached beneath her counter, pulling out a small paper packet. “Try this one. It’s a masala blend my grandmother taught me. Secret recipe,” she winked.

Matthew took the packet carefully. These small lessons were precious—more knowledge that couldn’t be stolen. “What’s it for?”

“Lamb,” she said. “Or goat, if you can find it. But chicken works too. I slow cook with tomatoes and onions.” She demonstrated with her hands a universal language of cooking that Matthew understood perfectly.

He handed the packet back to her. “Thank you, I’ll remember.”

Three stalls down, the Ramirez brothers were arguing good-naturedly over a crate of tomatoes, their rapid-fire Spanish punctuated with exaggerated gestures.

“Too over-ripe for salad,” the older brother, Miguel, was saying as Matthew approached. “But perfect for sauce.”

“Hey, Chef!” The younger brother, Alejandro, spotted Matthew and waved him over. It was their nickname for him, both teasing and respectful at once. “Settle an argument. These pear tomatoes—sauce or salad?”

Matthew picked one up, feeling its weight, noting the slight give under his fingers. He brought it to his nose, another habit that had earned him strange looks at school but was perfectly normal here. “Sauce,” he agreed. “They’re too ripe for a salad. They’d make everything soggy.”

Miguel slapped his brother’s shoulder triumphantly. “See? The Chef knows.” He selected one of the ripest specimens and handed it to Matthew. “Payment for your expert consultation.”

Matthew hesitated. He was uncomfortable with gifts.

Miguel saw the hesitation and misinterpreted it. “No charge,” he insisted. “Consider it payment for your professional opinion.” He winked and turned back to his brother, ending any possibility of refusal.

Matthew took the tomato. Even if he couldn’t use them properly, he could still enjoy them with a dash of salt, stolen bites of summer in his otherwise bland diet.

“Gracias, Miguel. I bet it will taste wonderful with a touch of salt.”

The fish section was next, Matthew’s favorite part. Mrs. Chen’s stall was immaculate, her seafood arranged on beds of ice with military precision. Unlike many of the other vendors who saw his interest as cute or novel, Mrs. Chen had taken him seriously from day one.