Excerpt of Dim Sum Dead by Jerrilyn Farmer

Chapter One

“I hate surprises.” I do. Hate 'em.

My best friend and partner, Wesley Westcott, had just
arrived at the Santa Monica Farmer's Market to meet up and
buy supplies. He pulled off his backpack and propped it up
next to a dark forest of fresh romaine and a spiky rustle
of gray-green endive.

“You always say that,” Wes said, “but this one is
different.”

“I don't think so.”

Our breath misted when we spoke. Southern California in
January. Who said we don't have seasons? But, of course,
the day would warm up. As soon as the sun burned through
the fog, we'd make it up to seventy degrees, warmer inland.

I put a crisp Chinese cabbage back down upon a perfect
pyramid display of similar heads. “Really, Wes. I hate
surprises.”

Wes began to unzip the black bag now resting on the out-
doorvegetable cart. “Stop saying ‘hate.' ”

“Okay. I don't want to be negative. Negativity sucks.

But ...”A small man, examining some chard, looked up. His
dark eyes gave me a once-over before they returned to
their careful examination of greens.

I lowered my voice. “I just want to point out that
surprises are highly overrated. In my opinion.”

“You just like to know everything ahead of time.

I picked up one perfect bunch of basil from the large
selection of fresh herbs on display. This stand was but
one of hundreds that made up the vast Farmer's Market held
near Arizona and Second Street every Wednesday and
Saturday morning. All around was a feast for the eyes.
Ripe and juicy and picked at the peak of flavor only hours
before up in central California's Conejo Valley, this
produce rocked the senses. But then, you can probably tell
I am wild for freshingredients.

Wait, now. There, on one inner basil leaf, was a teeny,
tiny brown spot. I put the minutely damaged bunch of basil
into a plastic bag anyway. Control freak? I think not.

The chard shopper shot another quick glance my way. I
noticed the sun glint off his gold ring as he put down
another tightly banded bunch of chard. I shifted my
shoulder bag. I looked at the plastic bag. Quickly, I
untwisted the twist tie and removed the slightly imperfect
bunch of basil.

Wes caught my eye. “You were saying ...”

“I just have rather high standards for things, that's
all.”

“Right,” Wes said, with his basketball-size surprise just
about unwrapped.

“Excuse me. Totally different thing.” Aha! My eyes were
always darting around at the Farmer's Market. Who could
tell where the next treasure was hiding? Now here was the
perfect basil. The rich green, purple-veined leaves were
large and moist, full and soft. I raised the thick bunch
of basil to my nose. The heavenly aroma of the
Mediterranean was intoxicating. I popped it into a fresh
plastic bag, cheerfully twisting and tying.

I looked up.

Wesley stood there looking back at me, a breeze whipping
his long brown hair back. Wesley Westcott is my best
friend -- my business partner, actually -- and an
excellent gourmet chef. Together, we have started a
catering and event-planning firm called Mad Bean Events,
which Wesley insisted we name after me. I thought we
should call it Made-line Bean Events, because, you know,
it sounds more dignified.

He didn't think dignity “sells” particularly well here in
L.A. Perhaps he's right, because we are doing just fine as
Mad Bean Events, catering Hollywood parties and planning a
kicky range of ultra-high-end special events.

For Wesley and me, the Santa Monica Farmer's Market is one
of our Wednesday morning rituals. It's something we've
done since we moved down to L.A. from Berkeley nine years
ago. We both love food and we both love to shop -- so this
was just about heaven for us, if you didn't mind thousands
of other shoppers elbowing you aside to get the last ripe
Haas avocado.

The early-morning bustle on Third Street, closed off to
car traffic, was getting thicker by the minute. Tight
throngs of well-dressed Westside gourmets scoured the
finest and freshest fruits and vegetables of the season.
One could people-watch for hours.

There were the young couples, holding hands, their heads
close together as they whispered about dinners they would
share. There were men, serious home cooks, who shopped in
silence. There were lots of attractive women -- young moms
pushing tots, and media career types, and others we like
to call forty-and-holding'everyone carrying designer water
bottles and dressed casually, perhaps on the way to
workouts with their trainers. All over the Market, you'd
see them, lifting a melon up for a quick sniff, squeezing
a lemon lovingly, and tucking their dawn buys into the
latest lavender Kate Spade totes.

Shopping along with the neighborhood regulars, of course,
there were a goodly number of us professional chefs, and
we all knew each other. The outdoor Market was a natural
place to meet and gossip in the chilly, overcast mornings,
and then to vie like schoolyard bullies for first pick and
special buying privileges from our favored grower/vendors.

“Excuse me.” A young mom stepped up to the stall and
grabbed a bunch of basil, and resumed talking a kind of
baby talk to the infant she had strapped to her chest in
one of those contraptions. “La-la-la-la-la” this young
woman burbled to the infant. I looked closely at the baby.
He or she seemed like every other baby. Big round head,
that sort of thing. I know the sight of babies makes many
women weak in the knees. But I guess my knees were built
steadier. Like I tell people, I'm too young. I'm not ready.