Cleaving: A Story of Marriage, Meat, and Obsession by Julie Powell

By Julie Powell

By the writer of JULIE AND JULIA

Julie Powell idea cooking her manner via Julia Child's Mastering the paintings of French Cooking used to be the craziest factor she'd ever do--until she launched into the voyage acknowledged in her new memoir, CLEAVING.

Her marriage challenged by means of an insane, impossible to resist love affair, Julie makes a decision to depart city and immerse herself in a brand new obsession: butchery. She unearths her method to Fleischer's, a butcher store the place she buries herself within the information of foodstuff. She learns tips to holiday down a facet of red meat and French a rack of ribs--tough, actual paintings that in simple terms occasionally distracts her from recommendations of afternoon trysts.

The camaraderie at Fleischer's leads Julie to find fellow butchers round the world--from South the United States to Europe to Africa. on the finish of her odyssey, she has discovered a brand new paintings and maybe even mastered her unruly center.

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Sample text

It looks rather like what would happen if you rubber-cemented two pieces of pink construction paper together, then pulled them apart again before the rubber cement dried. ” Seams seem (seams seem, heh) magical to me; they are what give butchery its best chance at grace. If you know what you’re doing, you can peel two muscles clean apart, smooth and untorn, with the tip of a five-inch knife, or even just with your fingers. I go along painstakingly, but as I pull up on the cap of meat with my right hand, all those clear connecting threads show the seam’s path.

You can learn the shortcut after you get the real way down. ” “Oh, all right…” So I apply myself to the job, getting used to the new grip. I actually prefer it; it feels so much stronger. Which, I realize, is exactly the danger. I’m able to put a lot more power behind the blade this way, pulling it toward me with my biceps. I can see what Tom means; if I pulled a bit too enthusiastically, things could get ugly. I scoot my body off to one side a little just to be safe, then slice through. Again I hit bone, again I have to dig messily around in the meat until I find the joint, wedge my knife tip down into the small, curved space between the bones, a cup and ball, as tightly knitted together with white bands of sinew as a devoted husband and wife.

Of course, I could offer to bone them out for her. I now know perfectly well how to remove the breastbone and cartilage from that insipid slip of white meat. But I am offended by the very notion of skinless boneless chicken breasts, and the boring sticklike women who eat them. This is why I don’t work the counter; my people skills leave something to be desired. “Well, that will do, I suppose,” she mutters. I turn to one side to reach for a pair of latex gloves. ” I look up from the tray of breasts to see the customer’s suddenly stricken face.

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