RIB-EYE IN THE SKY
IT WAS WHILE lying on my back and looking up the sight of a 12-gauge shotgun at a sky blackened with birds that I realized I was not a hunter. Even though I came from a long line of hunters, I couldn’t hit the side of a barn. My destiny was to cook game, not hunt it.
My father was a phenomenal hunter and as comfortable in the swamp as he was on our front porch.
