–Damon–
My wife's cravings are not for everyone. Laura, for example, hates miso soup so much that she had to push away from the table. I had to pick every little bone from the salmon—yes, it was a salmon head, ridiculous and grand all at once—but she asked for the eyes, bright and glossy. They looked juicy to her; she smiled at them like they were a private joke between us.
"This is good," Deanne said, nodding with the satisfied air of someone who knows what she likes.
"Thank you," Chef Wally replied, appearing at the table with the careful, quiet pride of a man who lives by the rhythm of a kitchen. He helped me remove the eyes and the brain and the soft jelly from the salmon head, taking out the spikes with meticulous patience and laying the pieces on a plate like he was arranging a small, edible offering.
