In the small wood house of the local farm stand, a billy club leek felt dangerous in my tightened fist. Bok choy bulbs were compact like grenades. We debated over neatly wrapped packages of chicken parts and decided on legs. White pebbly skin stretched tightly over the two thick limbs. In our kitchen, we detached the skin from flesh; stuffed in garlic butter, black pepper flakes, short rosemary leaves; baked the legs until the nubs of protruding bones were too hot to hold; cut muscle from fibula with a sharp knife edge; chewed the dark soft meat like wild wolves.