A Letter From Chris Kimball
For years, each issue of Cook’s Illustrated began with a folksy letter with news from Vermont from founder and editor-in-chief Chris Kimball. The charmingly rustic updates reminded readers of a slower, simpler way of life, where neighbors stopped to exchange seeding tips at the trading post, and knew to run when they saw Old Henry coming. Who’s Old Henry? Why, what a question, stranger. Old Henrys known your name for a long time.
It’s been seven years since Chris Kimball and Cook’s Illustrated parted ways, but that’s got no bearing on the business of the letter. Post still comes due, no matter who’s in charge. Mail’s got to get delivered, no matter who answers the door. Chris Kimball’s got a promise to keep, and letters to send, and news to delight and astound your ears, your eyes, and all the other forgotten, benumbed senses still lidded with sleep inside your own head.
Good evening to all the cooks at home, and all the cooks at sea. It has been a time — there has been such time, after all. I’m signing back on, you stove-hands and fiddlers of flame, and they’re clearing the radio waves of all the sounds that aren’t me. I write from a place a little further up the road from you. Some of what was pasture has been forested over, and some of what was forest is pasture now. I wonder now if a man ever can really move a tree, or if it only ever works the other way round.
You know that in all of New England, Vermont’s the only spot cut off from the sea. That’s from old punishing times, and there are sound reasons for it. There are old powers here, old rights and systems, old protections and agreements that can’t be struck out unless by salt. A man carries his childhood around on his back here until he finds a fit place for storage. A man named Higby’s got mine. You’ll let me know if you see him, won’t you? He won’t own to his name at first, but if you put the right questions to him in the right order, he’ll stop and speak truth.
In Vermont, there are several reliable ways to get a man’s attention. There’s bells and foghorns, and of course if he’s in your line-of-sight and if the weather’s clear, there’s semaphore. Every child in Vermont is taught the following phrases as soon as they’re old enough to ask for maple candy:
WHERE ARE YOU BOUND?
IN DISTRESS - IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE
KEEP LOOK-OUT — ENEMY WAR-VESSELS GOING ABOUT DISGUISED AS MERCHANTMEN
PERSONS OR THINGS INDICATED HAVE — OR HAVE NOT — OR IS — OR IS NOT — OR ARE NOT DOING
CONGRATULATE DON BENITO
THE YOUTHS OF THE WORLD ARE RUNNING AWAY TO SEA AGAIN
THE PAST IS PASSED. WHY MORALIZE ON IT? FORGET IT
ARANDA — MY MURDERED, UNBURIED FRIEND
I AM FAR FROM WELL, MY DARLING
WHAT LETTERS THEY ARE THAT MOTHERS GET
LEFT ALONE FOR WINTER
SETTLE DOWN, AND LIVE LIKE OTHER FELLOWS
Once I made 500 pounds of fudge, although it may have been more. I don’t remember the name of the man who helped me slice it, but I believe he lived a beautiful, useful life.
The trout often find their way up here in search of colder water once the Battenkill warms up. They sit cold in the deep here, until Axel gets in the water after ‘em. As long as Axel’s in the water, it’s legal to throw any household object you can independently lift at him. More than legal, it’s compulsory. Get moving.
I’ve spent a lot of time in old barns, more time than I care to remember. A barn’s where a man stores his usefulness. I know Heber gets $25 for the bull. I don’t know what he gets for Alfred. I hope you enjoyed the last days of summer. They went quick into the sack, didn’t they? And won’t you help me eat them?
I came here in 1955 and I ate more pigs than anyone, and that’s how I came to have rights here.
This time of year, when the evening starts eating into afternoon, and sunlight melts out of the day, that’s when you’re likeliest to meet Old Henry at your gate, or smiling up from the bottom of your well, or stretching a hand out of the maple-pitcher when you lift to pour it. He’ll have a gift for you, or a little chore, and if you want to get your daylight back, I strongly suggest you do it. Take the yoke he’s got to offer — unless you want to join him on his next rabbit-hunt. And friend, I don’t believe you do.
I’m walking down the road now, beloved, to come and see you. There’s so much about precision you’ve still got to learn. I’m coming to be merciful and precise to you, in your kitchen where you’re sitting now. I’m coming down the road big and beautiful, and my mouth’s open and head’s buzzing with hunger, swimming with it, leaking hunger out all over the hot Vermont road.
Previously in this series: Oh children, they’re closing in on old Chris Kimball. Oh darlings, oh dear hearts, the enemies are hot on my heels and a-nipping at my throat and hands, and the waves are closing over Chris Kimball’s head and heart.
Even more previously: Today’s a happy day, boys and girls. Every fall I shed my old assistant-wife, and every spring I marry the new one.