Ultimately, this fearsome intimacy proved too much for me. And I dealt with it the way the subconscious disposes of many problematic issues—by pushing it out of mind. Twelve years would pass without even a sign that marrow had once been one of my favorite foods.
Then suddenly, a few months ago, I began noticing marrow bones for sale at our local supermarket. They were large, and the marrow packed inside them smooth and creamy. Something inside me stirred; I took a package home. How had I prepared these, anyway? I couldn’t remember. So I searched through some cookbooks and learned how to cap the ends with foil and roast the bones in the oven. I brought them to the table and spread their contents on sourdough toast. I ate with relish, but also bemusement. Why had I been so unsettled by this stuff? It was rich, sure, but it was also delicious, and a little went a long way.
I was so delighted with our reacquaintance that I decided to acquire an authentic marrow spoon. I went online to eBay, and after considering a lovely silver one made by William Chawner II in 1830 for the mess kits of military officers—the bidding had reached a little over $300—I settled for an undated spoon by Cooper Brothers of Sheffield. Bidding was desultory; I nailed it for 15 bucks. It was a full nine inches in length, with a long narrow scoop at one end and an equally long but even narrower scoop at the other—an admirable example of form in hot pursuit of function. I was thrilled with it.
Even so, I wasn’t entirely happy. This beef marrow was a little greasier, a little soupier, than I remembered. I didn’t realize why until we happened to buy some country ham slices and I was able to savor ham marrow again. It was thick and unctuous ... somehow I had gotten beef marrow to be that way, as well. And then it came to me: I used to eat it raw.
I was appalled. Eating raw marrow was one of those things—like driving a sports car down a moonlit empty road with the headlights turned off—I didn’t exactly regret doing but knew I could never do again.
I was also reminded that the marrow in the ham bones had been cured and smoked. Might there not be some circumstance in which beef bones were prepared that way, too? I returned to the Internet, went to my favorite search engine, and typed in “beef marrow bones smoked.”
To my astonished delight, I soon found myself at the Web site of a country smokehouse that specialized in beef bones. They were treated with a real maple-sugar cure and smoked over hickory, then sealed in Cryovac and frozen. They were also amazingly inexpensive—$3.50 a bone. There was, as it happens, a very good explanation for this (which is why I’m not revealing the name of the smokehouse)—these bones were being marketed for dogs.
I pondered this. During my first marrow phase, I actually had a dog, a Siberian husky named Mick. He would sit patiently while I ate my toast, knowing his turn would be coming soon. It was a companionable thing; his utter interest in the proceedings helped make the meal. It would be an insult to his memory to let the phrase “canine treat” stand in my way now. These people took real pride in their bones; the only thing that kept them aimed at dogs was the cost of USDA inspection and the lack of demand for them as “human” treats.
I sent my order in.
You’ll want to know, perhaps, how they were. Really, all I’d hoped. Since the bones were already fully cooked, I had only to warm them to room temperature. The marrow was—if not exactly like that of a ham bone—rich and silky, with a whispery taste of smoke. I felt the little stab of guilt that these days is an inescapable part of eating rich food, but nothing that put me off my feed. On the contrary. As I scoured out the last of the marrow, I caught myself thinking how nice it would be to now lie down on the living room rug and gnaw awhile on the bone.
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