As the helpless vampire watched the transformation, it started screaming. It was still screaming when his rows of razor sharp teeth sank into its throat.
Mark came home late one frozen Sunday carrying a bag of small, silver fish. They were smelts, locally known as icefish. He__ brought them at the store in the next town south, across from which a little village had sprung up on the ice of the lake, a collection of shacks with holes drilled in and around them. I__ seen the men going from the shore to the shacks on snowmobiles, six-packs of beer strapped on behind them like a half dozen miniature passengers. __it and rest,_ Mark said. ____ cooking._ He sautéed minced onion in our homemade butter, added a little handful of crushed, dried sage, and when the onion was translucent, he sprinkled n flour to make a roux, which he loosened with beer, in honor of the fishermen. He added cubed carrot, celery root, potato, and some stock, and then the fish, cut into pieces, and when they were all cooked through he poured in a whole morning milking__ worth of Delia__ yellow cream. Icefish chowder, rich and warm, eaten while sitting in Mark__ lap, my feet so close to the woodstove that steam came off my damp socks.
The Dirty Life: On Farming, Food, and Love
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Mark came home late one frozen Sunday carrying a bag of small, silver fish. They were smelts, locally known as icefish. He__ brought them at the store in the next town south, across from which a little village had sprung up on the ice of the lake, a collection of shacks with holes drilled in and around them. I__ seen the men going from the shore to the shacks on snowmobiles, six-packs of beer strapped on behind them like a half dozen miniature passengers. __it and rest,_ Mark said. ____ cooking._ He sautéed minced onion in our homemade butter, added a little handful of crushed, dried sage, and when the onion was translucent, he sprinkled n flour to make a roux, which he loosened with beer, in honor of the fishermen. He added cubed carrot, celery root, potato, and some stock, and then the fish, cut into pieces, and when they were all cooked through he poured in a whole morning milking__ worth of Delia__ yellow cream. Icefish chowder, rich and warm, eaten while sitting in Mark__ lap, my feet so close to the woodstove that steam came off my damp socks.
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Even feigning surprise, pretending it was unexpected and saying a ritual thanks, is surely wiser than just expecting everything so carelessly.
The joy from eating does not come from the exclusivity of the food, but instead from the sensitivity that we eat it with.
We worked side by side building our sandwiches. Mine, just a few modest layers of meat and cheese, with a bit of lettuce for some added crunchiness; his, a Dagwood, piled high with turkey, ham, salami, lettuce, tomatoes, two kinds of cheese, and__ere those jalapenos__ith a teetering slice of bread carefully placed on top__here__ no way that__ going to fit into his mouth__e admired it for a moment then using his giant paw, smashed it into submission.
There is no such thing as escape after all, only an exchange of one set of difficulties for another. It wasn't Mark or the farm or marriage I was trying to shake loose from but my own imperfect self, and even if I kept moving, she would dog me all the way around the world, forever.
Original, in French: La bonne cuisine est la base du véritable bonheur. English: Good food is the foundation of genuine happiness.