The plump farm couple dressed in their polyester Sunday best will admonish. Run long fingers through the pixie-cut honey hair. The awkward girl in the homemade sailer blouse will push her heavy black glasses up her stubby nose. To my side, the penquinny waiter waits, quiet and posed, certain of the outcome. Sitting elbow-to-elbow across the small table with their forks paused over whatever they’d ordered, are my parents. I close my eyes and inhale: smoke, tang, Pacific. ![]() A feathery sprig of pine-green parsley curls over a thick lemon slice. Creamy butter flows like lava from a slit in the trout’s underside and soaks the pillow of rice. I clutch my heavy linen napkin in my lap and stare back. At my left hand, the head with deep, cold blues, sharply indented with something that looks like a brow, something that must be gills. At my right hand, a sharp, charcoal tail fans just over the rim of the white plate. The fish appears to quiver as the candlelight flickers. Scales gleam like sunrise along its curving flank: gold mostly, but hints of lavender and rose.
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