Sherman. I endured Maggie’s meanness, and atleast three times a week I listened to Mrs. Cloverly’s increasingly convoluted complaints about the
Delicious!
Guarantee.
But I was also writing regularly. When Jake accepted the Fontanari’s piece, the job became official, and he urged me to keep writing. I suggested shadowing Benny, and Jake agreed that the butcher would make a great story. In early April I spent a week with him. First we drove to Pennsylvania in his beat-up refrigerated van, visiting a gentleman farmer who raised free-range lambs on the most beautiful land I’d ever seen. The lovely animals were grazing across the hills, but when they saw us they came running. “Easter’s coming,” said Benny as they nuzzled our hands. He made a deal for a dozen lambs, and it made me sad to think that the next time I saw them they’d be nothing more than meat.
The next day we visited a young farmer in western Massachusetts. As we drove up the Taconic, Benny said, “Sean raises the best pigs you’ve ever tasted.” Farmer Sean turned out to be a shy bearded guy, very handsome and not much older than me. We helped him load the pigs into his pickup and followed him to a small family-run slaughterhouse. I couldn’t watch, or listen, and I was happy when our pig was in the van and we were on our way back to the city.
But in the shop I forgot my squeamishness, as Benny showed me how to break the animal into roasts, hams, loins, and chops, until we were down to the hooves and tail. At the very end we boned out the entire head, rolling up the crunchy ears, smooth snout, and tender tongue into a tasty little bundle.
Jake loved that piece, and in the summer he sent me off to Long Island Sound to spend a weekend with a chef who went fishing every morning so his customers could have the freshest catch. I learned to love what he called “trash fish,” especially the mild little blowfish tails that he battered and deep-fried, turning them into something resembling ethereal fried chicken.
In the early fall, Thursday told me about the Northeast Organic Wheat Project; she was so enthusiastic about their stone-ground wheat that I made a pilgrimage to Trumansburg, New York, to find out whatmade it special. The farmers there were a serious group, convinced that native wheats were the answer to gluten intolerance. I followed them through the fields as they proudly showed off heritage wheats. “This here,” said Farmer Greg, “is called ‘Rural New Yorker.’ It was developed for this climate back in the late 1800s by a plant breeder named Elbert Carman.” Jake was jubilant when that article was picked up by every organic organization in the country.
Later that fall, I foraged for matsutake mushrooms in the Pacific Northwest with a guy who insisted on blindfolding me and driving me around in circles for an hour so I’d be unable to divulge his secret spots. Jake liked that one so much he promised to promote me the next time something opened up. But I wasn’t holding my breath; nobody ever left
Delicious!
Between my regular job, writing articles, and working at Fontanari’s, I was too busy to lament my lack of a social life. Still, it wasn’t a complete zero: The
Delicious!
people often gathered after work, and Sammy regularly invited me to fantastic dinners in his glass dining room.
I was feeling so much more anchored that when Dad called, begging me to come home for Thanksgiving, I actually considered it. “I know you needed to get away,” he said, “and I’ve been trying not to bother you, trying to let you build a new life. But, Billie”—I could feel him swallowing his emotions—“it’s been over a year since I’ve seen you. And I just miss you.” I didn’t say anything, and Dad spoke into the silence. “I know Genie won’t be here. But do it for me. Please?”
How could I refuse?
“Thinking about going home without my sister makes me nervous,” I confided to Diana. She and I had an easy friendship,
Delicious!
Guarantee.
But I was also writing regularly. When Jake accepted the Fontanari’s piece, the job became official, and he urged me to keep writing. I suggested shadowing Benny, and Jake agreed that the butcher would make a great story. In early April I spent a week with him. First we drove to Pennsylvania in his beat-up refrigerated van, visiting a gentleman farmer who raised free-range lambs on the most beautiful land I’d ever seen. The lovely animals were grazing across the hills, but when they saw us they came running. “Easter’s coming,” said Benny as they nuzzled our hands. He made a deal for a dozen lambs, and it made me sad to think that the next time I saw them they’d be nothing more than meat.
The next day we visited a young farmer in western Massachusetts. As we drove up the Taconic, Benny said, “Sean raises the best pigs you’ve ever tasted.” Farmer Sean turned out to be a shy bearded guy, very handsome and not much older than me. We helped him load the pigs into his pickup and followed him to a small family-run slaughterhouse. I couldn’t watch, or listen, and I was happy when our pig was in the van and we were on our way back to the city.
But in the shop I forgot my squeamishness, as Benny showed me how to break the animal into roasts, hams, loins, and chops, until we were down to the hooves and tail. At the very end we boned out the entire head, rolling up the crunchy ears, smooth snout, and tender tongue into a tasty little bundle.
Jake loved that piece, and in the summer he sent me off to Long Island Sound to spend a weekend with a chef who went fishing every morning so his customers could have the freshest catch. I learned to love what he called “trash fish,” especially the mild little blowfish tails that he battered and deep-fried, turning them into something resembling ethereal fried chicken.
In the early fall, Thursday told me about the Northeast Organic Wheat Project; she was so enthusiastic about their stone-ground wheat that I made a pilgrimage to Trumansburg, New York, to find out whatmade it special. The farmers there were a serious group, convinced that native wheats were the answer to gluten intolerance. I followed them through the fields as they proudly showed off heritage wheats. “This here,” said Farmer Greg, “is called ‘Rural New Yorker.’ It was developed for this climate back in the late 1800s by a plant breeder named Elbert Carman.” Jake was jubilant when that article was picked up by every organic organization in the country.
Later that fall, I foraged for matsutake mushrooms in the Pacific Northwest with a guy who insisted on blindfolding me and driving me around in circles for an hour so I’d be unable to divulge his secret spots. Jake liked that one so much he promised to promote me the next time something opened up. But I wasn’t holding my breath; nobody ever left
Delicious!
Between my regular job, writing articles, and working at Fontanari’s, I was too busy to lament my lack of a social life. Still, it wasn’t a complete zero: The
Delicious!
people often gathered after work, and Sammy regularly invited me to fantastic dinners in his glass dining room.
I was feeling so much more anchored that when Dad called, begging me to come home for Thanksgiving, I actually considered it. “I know you needed to get away,” he said, “and I’ve been trying not to bother you, trying to let you build a new life. But, Billie”—I could feel him swallowing his emotions—“it’s been over a year since I’ve seen you. And I just miss you.” I didn’t say anything, and Dad spoke into the silence. “I know Genie won’t be here. But do it for me. Please?”
How could I refuse?
“Thinking about going home without my sister makes me nervous,” I confided to Diana. She and I had an easy friendship,
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