Your humble narrator, comfortably ensconced on the settee in the spacious living room at Nuevo Rancho Lake. He reads a legal thriller by Scott Turow. The grandfather clock marks the lugubrious moments of its second century of service at the altar of the hours. The ancestral piano sits, the memory of generations smudged into its keys.
In bursts the_child, triumphant glee writ large upon her face and a white plastic bag spinning in her hand. In an exultant tone, she bellows, "Hey dad, want to do something exciting on Saturday night with your daughter!?"
"Um, sure," your humble narrator replies. These questions are like frat boys on Friday night — always loaded.
"Let's dissect a fish head!!!"
the_child has a salmon head the size of a small chicken with her, wrapped in a garbage bag. A donation from the father of her friend D—, for which your humble narrator will seek suitable revenge later. We then spend about 45 minutes cutting into the head, examining gill structures, the muscles at the root of the pectoral fins, the spine, the eyes and so forth.
A fish head is boiling in a pot on the stove, being rendered down so we may later examine the skull. A bag of fish parts is rotting in trash. Various knives and miscellanea are in the dishwasher, which is on the "recycle nuclear waste" setting of most extreme cleansing.
All in all, another Saturday night at Nuevo Rancho Lake in the glamorous life of a working writer.