I sign Katie up for the apple pie baking contest in which she'd expressed an interest, and the women under the main canopy at the greenmarket start asking me all kinds of questions. Something about my dizzy spell earlier lends the entire conversation a surreal quality, and I can't quite seem to find my bearings, until one women asks why I don't go home and make the pie, instead of my wife making it.
"She makes the pie, I make the ice cream," I say, and even though it's true, it still sounds defensive and strange in my ears.
"Oh, this is my kind of man," one of the women responds as I turn and walk away.
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