I just finished devouring Blood, Bones & Butter –a book, not the actual stuff—by the chef and owner of a New York restaurant called Prune. Gabrielle Hamilton starts her memoir with a scene from her childhood in rural Pennsylvania; an outdoor party her father threw every year, with several lambs on a spit, turning over hot coals all day.
The first scenes remind me of my father’s own michoui.
That’s where any similarities end. A few pages later, she’s seventeen, in New York City, and has just been charged with Grand Larceny and Possession of Stolen Property after a year of slipping profits into her waitress’ apron at a busy Manhattan bar.
Before I knew anything about Grabrielle Hamilton, or her beautiful book, we went to her restaurant. I wrote about it back then.
On an unrelated note, here’s a link to my friend Sal Ciolfi’s piece on life after Crohn’s, and on "seeing the rainbow" of a grocery store now that he can eat whatever he pleases. Click here for Sal.
And one last not-so-nimble segue:
I can’t believe the colours at the market these days. I love this time of year. Rainbow, indeed.