The Full Moon Exchange
Frank McCullough made tofu because it was all he knew how to do. At forty-two, he had tried other things—working the line at the factory before it closed, driving a truck before his back gave out, selling insurance for six months before he realized he hated lying to people—and tofu was what remained. It was simple. You soaked the beans. You ground them. You strained the milk. You added the...
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