My grandmother had flanken.
I don’t mean she consumed prodigious amounts of it, or that she served up her superb version often, though both are true.
I refer, instead, to her arms.
Her dark olive skin was perfectly smooth and taut across her elegant face. But the soft flesh from her gently sloping shoulders to her wide, tired feet hung in rounded folds like an old shower curtain.
When she left the house, every bit of that loose flesh was constrained: in heavy