by Sam Moe Sorin Gheorghita 1. You arrive at the greenhouse past midnight to purchase vegetables for the confit. The day hasn’t begun, you bear a lantern in one hand, emptied seafood bin in the other. The nursery smells sweet, the only sound your hands hooking light to the wall, hair falling in front of your right eye, hush of cotton pants creasing as you bend to pluck mustard greens. Too soon night will end, you’ll appear, bleary-eyed and covered in soot, ready for the menu.