Comfort Me With Gnocchi:
I met M on a farm just outside Boston on a rainy day in June. It was the summer before my senior year of college, and I was trying my hand at farming. I’d always had a knack for books, though I was itching to spend some time outdoors, coaxing something real from the ground. M was a handsome, painfully shy twenty-three-year-old with a slight scar beneath the curve of his left eyebrow. He wore an army green felt hat that cast a shadow over his strong, deeply tanned face and dark eyes. His shoulders were slender yet muscled, and I caught...
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