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Yuca con mojo
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grain-fed
Legs. That’s what they called her. She packed the grinder, her six kids and a bag of barley and headed for a hollow in the hills of Kentucky. Three thousand miles and no food save for some milk souring in her oft-trampled bosom. On arrival, she clamped the metal contraption to a beam that held up the dirt floor cabin, fattened the fire. Her upright children whipped the handle one by one to see who could fill a bread pan full of flour fastest. Pancakes griddled on the wood stove. Legs boiled down sorghum from the cane she had harvested in the fields. After feasting, her heavily biceped offspring hoisted themselves through the glassless windows and leapt into the woods.