In Winter's Kitchen. Beth Dooley
the company’s warehouse while I nervously and earnestly presented the promotion plan and budget, employing every marketing cliché I knew. But before I could finish, he stifled a yawn, winked, and pulled a crimpled paper bag from his creaky desk drawer. “Do you like venison sausage?” he asked, flipping open a pocketknife to cut me a thick slice.
Kwitchak was a tall drink of a man with big ears and a lanky gait. “Folks call me the Norwegian bachelor farmer who married Ann,” he joked. He’d worked his way up the corporate food chain by sweeping floors and stacking produce for the old Red Owl grocery stores. “I grew up on a farm and couldn’t wait to get away from it. Long hot hours, nothing to do in the country. I wanted to live in the city, especially after the war,” he said. Despite his genius for selling potatoes from Idaho, Kwitchak’s pantry was stocked with the food he grew, caught, trapped, and foraged, as well as the fish, duck, and venison he smoked in an old refrigerator he’d converted and fired with applewood. He threaded wild mushrooms to hang and dry on attic rafters, and he put up pickles on an old stove in his garage while watching the Minnesota Vikings on Sundays.
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