Read an Excerpt
Chicago, the city of my birth, boasted one of the nations biggest and busiest stockyards when I was growing up. I can remember summer evenings in our Hyde Park neighborhood when the wind shifted just so and the smell of the stockyards drifted over us. And I can remember being taken by our rather well-to-do but childless neighbors, whom I called Uncle Jack and Auntie E., to the stockyards for dinner at a "club" where each diner could brand his own steak. I wasn't much of a steak eater and would ask if they had fish. Auntie E. a devout Catholic, would say "It's not Friday. You don't have to eat fish."