Yesterday, Jim Harrison died. I came to Jim Harrison late, much later than I wish I had, I guess. That’s how much of a joy he was for me to read. I read The Raw & The Cooked as a mid-career man…

Source: Jim Harrison, RIP

Yesterday, Jim Harrison died.

I came to Jim Harrison late, much later than I wish I had, I guess. That’s how much of a joy he was for me to read. I read The Raw & The Cooked as a mid-career man-child in the restaurant business who, at 32, thought he knew pretty much everything there was to know about the world, food, wine and hospitality (and women.) My miscalculation backfired on me later much to my  expense, and to the detriment of my employers, guests, co-workers, girlfriends, friends and family.
Everything Harrison preached in Raw embodied an aesthetic ideal to I would vow to hold myself: multi-course meals worth flying across the Atlantic for; ordering cases of obscure, inky, but not too expensive French (or in my case Spanish, as taste, trend and thrift often dictated) wines; over-the-top meals with epicurean Paul Bunyans, like Orson Welles, etc.
Commitment to such high-minded ideals and plans seldom unravelled in such a fashion for me in those days. Although I did my best to eat and drink (etc., etc.,) myself into oblivion on a nearly daily basis for much of the nineties and naughties, I never approached the pure hedonic respect and adulation that Harrison held in deference to all things culinary and oenological. I was conscious of chasing not only Harrison’s lust for gluttony (if you can stack the mortal sins on top of one another as such—pretty sure you can), but at times also the pilgrimages and rituals of my friends in the culinary world, who bore out their passions in a more measured and disciplined manner. Harrison (and his heirs apparent in my world) pushed the edge of sanity, mental and physical, but rarely set foot on the other side of the Rubicon of extremity.
I was a lightweight, in other words. Well not really—I could and did drink (and eat) tons, but I just never learned (or was incapable of learning) how to pace myself, how to enjoy and savor every mouthful, sip, aroma, bouquet, experience. Once the drinking started, it became the only thing going on for me. I had, quite literally, an insatiable thirst and when engaged, it inundated any activity or experience that bookended it, whether I was at a Michelin-starred restaurant or out with my in-laws for a quiet dinner.
Anyway, as I tried and failed, to emulate “the Roving Gourmand’s” approach to life in a culinary sense, I began to read Harrison’s other material, starting with his memoir, Off to the Side, which detailed Harrison’s often painful, solitary younger life, filled with books, respect for the outdoors and pursuit of the more mundane activities I espoused, such as walking in the woods, reading and writing, and fly fishing. He displayed a fondness for birds and animals, sure, but more than that, he showed a deep knowledge and studied approach to the natural world, displayed in a casual and appreciative way compared to most know-it-all botanists and naturalists I’d read before. He approached every topic with reverence, a respect that even shone through when discussing things he clearly disliked, such as academic life. I could identify with (and aspire to) such knowledgeable and non-judgmental detached enthusiasm and expertise.
It was only after this that I began to read Harrison’s novellas and poetry, and his one published short story, set, of course, over a lunch.
I was stunned by the rich beauty. I didn’t always remember how much I loved his fluid, rich style, his broad-shouldered handling of the male psychic landscape, in many areas–love, life, war, work. I wouldn’t say I read him often, but I knew when I could afford the pleasure, I would pick up his work, and be challenged in the most enjoyable, enriching way. His work was to be savored and time was to be dedicated to it.  Ultimately it was his verse and stories that moved me, not his Dionysian exploits.
Which brings me to today, and why I’m writing in the first place. Writers like Harrison are the ones that set the bar incredibly high, but encouragingly through their craft and deftness with words, render aspiring writers humbly ennobled to pick up the pen and go to town. I’ve written nearly every day for the better part of the last twenty-five years. Some times the writing has been diffident navel-gazing, never bearing out anything more than fears and insecurities on the page. Other times there’s been real quality in the work (or so I’ve been told.) Today, the passing of Jim Harrison has allowed me to say fuck it, and just put it out there.

Fear, though, huh, kid??

I’ve had this site protected for over a year and a half.
I’ve had this blog title and URL claimed for over three years.
I’ve had this fear for the entirety of my life as a writer, and similar fears as an adult—as a chef, as a man, with all that entails—for the length of my adult life as well. Fear of failure. Fear of rejection. Fear of putting your true self out there for all to see, selflessly, warts and all, willing only to learn from the process.
It wasn’t always this way. When did fear begin to get in the way? When did it become impossible not to just embrace the moment and just be, and express, like I did for so many hours playing ‘army’ in the woods, or pedaling my bicycle for hours on end around Gordon’s Main Street Garage, drawing silently at my desk for hours?
When I was a child I had different fears, just things I was scared of, really. I remember at 9 or 10 and being afraid of feeding the chickens after the sun went down. I remember being afraid of walking past a certain house on South Street that never had the lights on, or from a recurring bad dream, the Havens’ house at the end of Highland Road.(A crucifix featured in that one. No wonder.) The point is, well, I got over or learned to live with those fears, so now I have to try to get beyond this modern, more existential fear and just put the work out there.
So here it goes. I apologize in advance.

Here are some words of Harrison’s about childhood fear.

“Child Fear”
by Jim Harrison

Sour milk. Rotten eggs. Bumblebees.
Giant women. Falling through the privy hole.
The snake under the dock that bit my foot.
Snapping turtles. Electric fences. Howling bears.
The neighbor’s big dog that tore apart
the black lamb. Oil wells. Train wheels.
Dentists and doctors. Hitler and Tojo. Eye pain.
School superintendent with three gold teeth.
Cow’s infected udder, angry draft horse.
School fire. Snake under hay bale. Life’s end.
That your dead dogs won’t meet you in heaven.

Thank you, Jim, for living, and for writing through your fears. I hope your dogs are in heaven, jumping all over you tonight.