Baked gigante beans packed in a light tomato paste and oil were drained and tossed with red wine vinegar to become two sweet little dishes: one with parsley, baby basil leaves, sea salt, and dried chile, served with a sunshiney fried egg; the other, with ricotta, minced garlic, and olive oil, which was rich and cool and perfect.

Ah, and whole roasted chicken leg with lemon and garlic.

Roasting chicken is actually very simple; as simple and straightforward, really, as roasting anything else. I will thus never turn back from whence I came: full of self-doubt, cowering in the face of an elegant little three act play (generous seasoning, a good coat of oil, and an oven. You, the spectator, don’t count— although, obviously, your participation is very necessary. Be present. Be aware. And then feast!).

So, let me tell you something: when I was a kid, I hated meat on the bone. Not because it was gruesome, but rather because it was unwieldy. It was messy and unforgiving and very involved. Sometimes you’d end up chewing on some cartilage. Now, when I look back on those days, and that mindset, I am appalled: why, that is the very best part!

So, let me tell you something: eating meat off the bone is one of the most elemental instances of everyday pleasure. It is one of those utterly perfect moments in eating, those glorious little sparks of life when man and food truly connect: like tearing a piece off a loaf of crusty bread, or biting directly into a ripe peach; you connect, physically and there is also an energy there, something inexplicable but really very wonderful. Do I sense a shiver of recognition? Your fingers get all messy and you get to lick them. I mean, honestly: no wonder I became a vegetarian for a little while. I didn’t even understand what it was all about.