That special something in the taste of wine,
a sense of place, underscent of soil and weather,
more than variety of grape or rainfall. That
matchless geography in a corner of a field
where bacteria and fungi are exclusive, a micro-
climate and ecology that informs the flavor
of tomatoes, chocolate. Even the qualities
of cheese by where cows grazed. You recognize

it in people who look like New Yorkers
or Parisians, or hermits in Appalachia.
Farmers reflect their land, carry in their pores
the scent of earth and leaf mulch, lichens
and old dogs. They might taste like goats’
milk, sheepskin, a bit of soil mixed in. Get close.
We all have a bit of spice and tang, full-bodied
or thin, we’re artisan made, blue-veined with mold.

Two words meant to soothe. Even the cover
of this cookbook appeals— palm trees, shepherds,
sheaves of wheat in drawings that frame
the title below a sleepy sun. Traditional recipes

sound like a great idea, back to basics, natural
ingredients, no added chemicals or preservatives.
I’m gung-ho, ready to jump in the pot,
until I read ingredients. Each recipe asks for

something I don’t have, have never had on hand,
like green chiles or fish sauce (see page 157).
Turn the page to see how it’s made,
learn it asks for whey (see page 87)

and tamarind paste (available in African
markets). I live in the woods, red county
in a red state, where locals prefer every
meat and veggie fried. Many have stopped

eating greens. They buy their bread in bags
at Food Lion, drive the long ride home. I’d like
to make bone broth, plus chicken and beef stocks
to add to soups or to sip hot on these cold,

snowy days. My inclination to make salad
dressings from scratch is now stymied by
expeller pressed flax oil, not locally for sale.
I could go online like any modern female

robot, see what’s trending, have it shipped,
though that seems neither nourishing
nor traditional. Perhaps I’ll make linguine
with chocolate chips. I have all the ingredients.