Bury MarketBury MarketBury Market

Bury Market had been trading for eight hundred years, and my family had been selling black pudding for the last century. Not the factory stuff—proper pudding, made to recipes that predated supermarkets, sold to customers whose grandparents had bought from my grandmother.

"Ms. Ashworth?"

The man at my stall was familiar from television—one of those celebrity chefs who'd made northern food fashionable without understanding it. His smile was expensive; his clothes said London.

"If you're here for photo opportunities, the pudding's extra."

"I'm here for education." He didn't flinch at my hostility. "I'm Marcus Cole. I've been serving black pudding for years and I've never understood it properly."

"Understanding takes time. Do you have time?"

"I have as long as you'll give me."

He wasn't lying. Marcus returned to my stall daily for a month, watching me prep and sell, asking questions that showed genuine curiosity. The celebrity veneer cracked as he learned—underneath was a man who actually cared about food.

"Why black pudding?" he asked during week three. We'd moved from the market to a café nearby, professional interest becoming something warmer.

"Because it's honest. Blood and oats and spices—nothing pretending to be something else." I stirred my tea. "People think it's grotesque. They don't understand that using everything is respect, not horror."

"The whole animal philosophy."

"Older than philosophy. Just common sense." I met his eyes. "Why does a celebrity chef care about pudding?"

"Because I've made food fancy for twenty years and forgotten what it's for." He set down his cup. "Watching you—the customers, the pride, the way you handle every sale like it matters—I remember why I started cooking."

"And why did you?"

"Because my grandmother fed us when we had nothing. Because food was love made material." He reached across the table. "You make me remember that. Every bloody day."

We kissed in the café, surrounded by market traders who'd known me forty years. His mouth was warm, certain—the kiss of someone who'd made a decision.

"Mine's above the stall," I said.

"Of course it is."

The flat was market life condensed—small, practical, decorated with ribbons from competitions my grandmother had won. Marcus looked around with obvious respect.

"This is heritage."

"This is survival. Heritage is what we call survival once it's old enough."

"Then this is both."

We made love while the market slept below, our bodies finding rhythms that the weeks of proximity had promised. Marcus touched me with chef's attention—knowing that good things required patience, that flavor developed slowly.

"You're beautiful," he said.

"I'm built for early mornings and heavy lifting."

"You're built for endurance. For purpose." He kissed down my body. "The most beautiful things have both."

We came together while somewhere distant, factories made pudding that tasted like nothing. When I cried out, it was with the same satisfaction I felt at a perfect batch—completion, rightness, the joy of something made well.

"Stay," I said.

"In Bury?"

"In my market. In my life." I touched his face. "The celebrity can come and go. But this—this could be real."

He stayed. The restaurants continue, but now there's a market stall that features in every interview, a supplier who became a partner. His shows changed—became humbler, more honest, focused on food that fed rather than impressed.

"We're good together," Marcus said one night.

"We're honest together."

"Same thing." He pulled me closer. "Everything worthwhile is honest eventually."

The market still trades. The pudding still sells. And now there's a celebrity chef who became a market trader's partner, who learned that the best food isn't fancy—it's true.

That's the recipe. Not ingredients or techniques, but the honesty that makes feeding people matter. Marcus found it at my stall and in my arms. I found someone who remembered what I'd always known—that food is love made material, and the best love is served without pretense.