A farmer’s kitchen can be a confusing place for a visitor. Like stumbling into an alchemist’s workshop, tied-up bundles of drying herbs hang overhead, bottles filled with colorful liquids steep in the windowsills, jars whose bulging lids burp malodorous farts sit in the dark corners.

Fall flowers

But it’s when you open the refrigerator that things become truly strange. A farm fridge is a mysterious place where the acute powers of observation are an essential life skill. Quick, can you spot the difference between the two identical jars, both of which contain a viscous clear liquid? Me neither. Which begs the question: how often over the years have I rid myself of tapeworms while thinking I was merely relaxing with a freshly made evening’s old fashioned of bourbon and my premade simple syrup?

That slightly off-colored liver on the plate on the top shelf? Is it dinner for tonight or an organ sample for the vet to examine postmortem? How many times have I bypassed the homemade ranch dressing and instead retrieved the large jar of milky-white penicillin for the salad? Observation, folks — we begin to see why it so important.

Recently Cindy, having made an endless batch of coarsely ground pesto, decided to freeze some in ice cube trays. It was one of those Martha Stewart–type innovations that linger unused for years (an observation I kept to myself). A few weeks later, though, recalling her efforts, I determined a little cube of pesto tossed with pasta to be the perfect side to complement a grilled fillet of catfish. So, while I seasoned the fish, boiled the water for the pasta, I happened to open the fridge.

Lo and behold, there sat an ice cube–size portion of pesto on a saucer that Cindy had obviously thawed for future use. I pulled it out and left it to finish warming on the counter.

Meanwhile, I continued with dinner preparations. I tuned in to a podcast on ancient Greece and poured myself a glass of wine. I fixed the salad, tossed the pasta into the salted, boiling water, and put the fish into a skillet to swim in the simmering garlic butter. After about eight minutes, I drained the pasta and prepared to toss it with the pesto, when at that very moment Cindy came into the kitchen.

Glancing at the pesto on the plate, she said casually, “That fecal sample needs to go back in the fridge. I’m taking it to the vet’s in the morning so he can check it for parasites.”

Timing, as they say, is everything.

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Reading this weekend: An English Pastoral (James Rebanks).

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