The store was a mess — the very picture of how not to sell food. The aesthetic was drab. The vibe, absent. In one area, pickles, marshmallows and wrapping paper were stocked side by side; Trish Sharon liked to call it the pregnancy aisle. But she and her husband, Bo, kept harping on the bananas: They somehow seemed the saddest of all specimens, just slapped down on a table with rough patches of AstroTurf. It was the cardinal sin of not honoring one’s ingredients, of treating fruit as a simple fuel source.

Bo is always quick with a joke, and he lay down across the banana table, posing like a slab of apple-stuffed meat. His wife laughed. “It was like, ‘Who in their right mind would shop here?’” Trish says.

It was their job to answer that question.

This was 2002. The Sharons were in their early 20s and facing their future in every possible way. The young couple were engaged to be married and had been handed the keys to the family business — the North Boulder Market, this mess of a place in Boulder, Colo., which Trish’s uncle and father had run for a decade. Now Trish and Bo were tasked with making it a more viable business. There were, to be sure, many ways that could go wrong.

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