“For the record, I’m not at all concerned about my shirt,” he said as I extricated myself and headed back over to my cutting board.
“Now you tell me.” I finished slicing the beets, washed my hands until the water ran clear, then started assembling the salad. I stacked frisée and endive leaves on two plates, topped them with wedges of the purple beets, added a handful of Leo’s walnuts (for which I got an approving eyebrow), and finished with a few crumbles of good feta. I drizzled syrupy balsamic vinegar over the whole thing, added a little walnut oil, then dusted salt, pepper, and a few sprigs of fresh parsley across the top.
As I assembled, he told me about one of his heritage pigs that had gotten loose from the paddock in the woods, and how he and some of his interns spent the afternoon running through the forest, trying to tackle a hog.
“I really wish I could have seen that,” I said, setting the plates down on the table while Leo opened the wine he’d brought.
“Come back again sometime and I’ll show you the pigs. They’re great.”
“And you raise pigs for . . .”
“Pork. Bacon. Chops. Everything.”
I turned from the stove, where I was getting the cast-iron pan sizzling hot for the scallops. I’d fried some bacon earlier, and it was chopped and ready to go in at the last moment. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he replied, pouring wine into the glasses I’d set out.
“Is it ever weird, getting to know the animals you’re going to end up killing? Do you ever get attached?”
I held my hand over the pan, testing the heat. I flicked a drop of water in, watched it sizzle and pop. Good to go. Too hot, and the scallops would burn. Not hot enough, they would just steam.
“Hmm. Not sure attached is the right word. How can I explain without sounding callous?” He came to stand next to me while I started the scallops. “On the tour, I talked about how everything at the farm has a purpose, right? The animals live the most stress-free life I can give them. Not just for humane reasons, which I feel very strongly about. But it’s also better for me, and the rest of my farm, to let the chickens, the sheep, the pigs, even the cows that graze on some of my land live as normally as possible. When I move sheep onto a field, I get the benefit of their hooves aerating the soil. I get the benefit of the naturally occurring compost that happens when animals do their business. They get the benefit of eating clover all day under a gorgeous sky and moving around as freely as they want to. They’re incredibly happy animals.”
“They did seem happy,” I said, watching the scallops. I resisted the urge to move them, knowing the longer I let them sit still, the more caramelized and sticky good they’d be.
“It’s amazing how much better a pork chop is from a pig that’s been rooting through the forest, rolling in the mud, sleeping in the shade, and living a full life. We try to produce as much as we can on the farm, try to be as diverse as we can and still maintain the quality. It’s a balancing act, one I’m still learning.”
He was so full of passion for what he did, his entire body perked up when he talked about it.
I checked one of my scallops—charred and gorgeous on the underside. Using tongs, I flipped each one over.
“I wonder if this was happy bacon,” I said, taking the plate I’d cooked up earlier.
“Where’d you get it?”
“In town. Steve, my new favorite butcher, recommended it.”
“That’s very happy bacon,” he said proudly. “That’s from Maxwell Farms.”
“Well, look at you.” I grinned, watching him puff up a little bit. And why shouldn’t he? It seemed like he was doing exactly what he was supposed to do.