Jane Satterfield

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A Place at the Table

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AA028655Award-winning Baltimore poet Jane Satterfield describes a certain kind of personal fulfillment in food, well chosen.

As I opened the door of the restaurant anchoring a rehabbed grist mill in a gentrified section of town, I paused to breathe in the herbs’ woodsy scent, the smell of roasting meat, and a whiff of yeast escaping the fired-up brick oven. I’m out of my kitchen for the evening, absolved from the happy duty of family dinner, not here to see and be seen like the lively crowd of hipsters in bright skinny jeans and aggressive eyewear who hover at the bar’s edge, martinis in hand.  What mom on an evening out doesn’t smile at the memory of being that young, that free?