My husband roasts the fish whole,
lemon slices arranged around the pan,
and the meal comes out in courses
the way we used to do it before we had a child:
first a garlicky Caesar salad with homemade croutons,
then avgolemono, a lemony Greek soup made hearty with rice,
then finally the roasted broccolini
and that branzino,
the two fish displayed side by side on a platter,
an olive tapenade and creamy butter
to spread on thick slices of crusty fresh bread.
Dinner lasts for two hours,
and five-year-old Julia scoots her chair as close to mine as it will go,
leaning her body up against my side.
But she is patient, quiet.
Without complaint or prodding,
she tries dishes we know she will probably not like.
After a first exploratory taste, she just lets them sit
and waits for whatever comes next.
As we eat, our friends describe the undeveloped five acres they’ve found.
the house they want to build on it.
One, a textile artist, pulls out a pack of felt stickers for Julia,
who creates a pattern with the shapes between courses.
When she’s done, our friend looks closely at the design
and speaks artist to artist,
not in the usual bubbly way adults talk to children about their art,
but in serious and thoughtful tones,
describing the colors and shapes,
which remind her of a river, a path.
A journey.
