With bones, in other words, the possibilities for reincarnation are endless. A joint becomes a stock, which then becomes the base for pot au feu, or another rich, meaty stew. I've even taken to roasting cuts from animals on racks made from their bones, a roast beef on a bed of marrow bones. It's culinary id. At some point, though, my fridge started to look like a boneyard, my hair smelled like veal, and I began to long for another life, one away from the stove and skipping on both legs. Still, I am grateful for the chance that being hobbled for a while presented me: to linger in the kitchen while things cooked slowly; then to grip the bones in my fist, use my teeth to strip the meat, and quietly relish the savagery—and the delicacy—of it all.