I wanted to be in with the meat and the knives and to wear the long bloody coat." There's a concentrated, virile, saturated quality to the prose, an almost claustrophobic intensity to the perch from which we observe Hamilton's life.Ībout a trip to the local butcher Hamilton writes, "Every time Joe opened the heavy wooden cooler door, I caught a good eyeful of carcasses hanging upside down with their tongues flopping out the sides of their bloody mouths and their eyes filmed-over, milky, and bulging, along with disembodied body parts - legs, heads, haunches, sides, ribs, looking like something in a Jack London story. But the most arresting thing about these first pages of the memoir is Hamilton's voice. The description is an introduction to Hamilton's relationship to food and to her messy, lovable, dysfunctional family. At the beginning of Gabrielle Hamilton's memoir, Blood, Bones & Butter, the New York City chef describes an annual lamb roast held at her childhood home in rural Pennsylvania.
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