“I’m trying.”
“That five dollars looking cheap now.”
Clara smiled.
“You offered free.”
He pointed.
“You insisted on paying.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted a commercial transaction.”
“That sounds like college.”
“It sounds like ownership.”
Hank studied her.
Then looked toward a pallet of peppers near the shed.
“I’ve got maybe six hundred pounds over the next week.”
“How much?”
He thought.
“Fifty cents a pound.”
Clara stared.
“You were throwing them away.”
“Not anymore.”
She almost laughed.
“So the five-dollar peppers taught you capitalism.”
“They taught me demand.”
She crossed her arms.
“Twenty cents.”
“Forty.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Thirty-five.”
“Thirty.”
Hank held out his hand.
“Done.”
Clara shook.
Then said:
“I need consistent sorting.”
His expression changed.
“What?”
“No mold.”
“No fermentation.”
“Bruising okay.”
“Sunscald okay if flesh is sound.”
“Cracks case-by-case.”
“You’re buying rejects and giving specifications?”
“Yes.”
Hank laughed.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And I need lot records.”
He stopped laughing.
“Lot what?”
“Field and harvest date.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m selling you ugly peppers, not pharmaceuticals.”
“If there’s a food-safety problem, I need traceability.”
Hank stared.
Clara waited.
Finally:
“You’re becoming annoying.”
“My father said that.”
“He was right.”
Hank agreed.
Barlow became supplier number one.
Then Clara called two other farms.
One laughed.
One agreed.
By October, she had access to nearly two thousand pounds of cosmetically rejected peppers each month.
That number sounded enormous until Clara calculated sauce yield.
Then it sounded insufficient.
She completed Better Process Control School online at night.
Submitted formula to a process authority.
Adjusted acidification slightly.
Changed cook time.
Bought a calibrated pH meter.
Lot-coded every batch.
Hired a graphic designer she could barely afford.
The designer proposed elegant names.
Ember Harvest.
Red Acre.
Pecan Flame.
Clara hated all of them.
Luke suggested:
“Five-Dollar Garbage Sauce.”
Sarah said:
“No.”
Clara smiled.
“Five Dollar Fire.”
Her mother looked at her.
“That’s not terrible.”
Luke looked offended.
“My idea.”
“Your idea had garbage.”
“Authenticity.”
The label became FIVE DOLLAR FIRE.