Essays
from The Allure of the Cut
She says it’s an old world way, cutting in her hands, which could mean either the hills of Italy or of West Virginia. I use words like julienne and brunoise because they signify to me a kind of trained excellence that I long for. I’m all militant mise-en-place to her on-the-fly, heaping, rustic arrays. Because of this, I’m often so particular, so know-it-all, that I have to look away when she takes into her sure hand an onion, roughly carves out a wedge of its bawdy, white layers. My fear that she’ll cut herself just because I watch is too irrational. My urge to comment on what she does, and how, is too great. I lower my eyes. I leave the room.
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