
By Juliet Wittman
The end of our fourth day in the kitchen, and—though no one I know would ever believe such a thought could cross my mind—I’m feeling I don’t ever want to think, talk, read about, or shop for food again. Let alone eat. Too much hustling round the kitchen, too much trying to figure out what I’m doing, too many stupid mistakes brought on by fatigue, too many things to taste—each of them wonderful, but cumulatively overwhelming—too much uncertainty about tomorrow, when we’re supposed to go off book, split into small teams, and figure out for ourselves what to cook. With Chef Michael’s help, of course.
I’ve been talking with Laura, another student, about buying a half pig together and splitting it, and I dreamed about that damn pig last night: My part arrived. It hadn’t been eviscerated, but that was okay because it was actually a hard, dark piece of wood, and I left it propped up on a chair in the back room. Walking into the room later, I noticed the thing was moving. Slightly, but unmistakably.
I like eating meat, and I like working with it, but I’ve never managed to come completely to terms with the fact that an animal has to die to provide it. I discussed this with Kimberly—a proud carnivore—as we worked at a saddle of lamb this morning pulling skin and fat away, guiding our knives carefully against bone so as to lose as little meat as possible in separating out the loin meat and releasing the tiny tenderloins. The creature we were dissecting was very young and amazingly small. Michael had talked to us earlier about the kind of fat and scrap worth saving when you’re cutting up an animal—the luscious melt-in-the-mouth and carry-flavor-like-nothing-else-can kind—and the stringy stuff you need to toss.
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