“Where’s the apple butter?” Eric called from the depths of the refrigerator.

“I think we finished the jar last time,” I said.

He went and got another one from the pantry, opened it, began spreading it on our toast. (That leaves four.) “I’m so glad you like apple butter,” I said.

“Yours? Or in general?”

“In general. I mean, I suppose if you liked the storebought stuff better than mine, we’d get it, so both.”

He shuddered. “Yours tastes so much better. I mean, the storebought stuff is okay, but it’s like…storebought tomatoes instead of your tomatoes.”

“Or carrots?”

“Exactly. You’re spoiling me.”

“Just think how sad it’ll be when we’re in an apartment, and can’t grow as much.”

“We can’t live in an apartment!”

“We’ll go to the farmer’s market.”

“We’ll have to.”

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