Tales from Cheffing Around
My fingertips hold the memories of every garlic clove I’ve ever smashed, every plump strawberry I’ve macerated, every fillet I’ve trimmed and tied. My brain retains next to nothing so I’m grateful for these 10 digits, however scarred they might be. Sometimes I feel like …
I remember bow ties. Pink ones. And white dress shirts. And black dress pants. I remember all those cater-waiter legs marching into each venue like a pink bowtied millipede hauling flats of glasses or plates. Hup two three four, hup two three four! I took …
I was thinking about lentils. And the creak my right knee made as the winding road inclined. And if it was worth wrestling my dirty laundry into the tiny Italian washing machine two days before going home. Gunshots from Umbrian quail hunters rang out regularly …
My fingertips hold the memories of every garlic clove I’ve ever smashed, every plump strawberry I’ve macerated, every fillet I’ve trimmed and tied. My brain retains next to nothing so I’m grateful for these 10 digits, however scarred they might be. Sometimes I feel like …