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I adore animals. In thirty years, I could be a cat lady if I’m not careful. But if my cholesterol cooperated and my blood pressure simmered down, I could also eat a nice, heavily-marbled bistecca alla Fiorentina virtually every night of the week, drizzled with some peppery Tuscan olive oil and a squeeze of Meyer lemon.
Slow-roasted pork butt rubbed with fennel pollen, garlic and Maldon sea salt? Count me in. Pretty little spatchcocked quail stuffed under the skin with smashed garlic cloves and hot red pepper and then thrown on the grill? I’m there. Tiny abbachio—that milk-fed baby lamb that hasn’t yet tasted grass and prefers just to frolic around happily? Sign me up. Just don’t show me a picture of it beforehand.
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