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Bone white russets in an enamel, red bowl. Steaming, quartered and peeled with parsley and the scent of tarragon nearby. Pa in his undershirt pulling Jake's scruff, pulling open his jaw to examine incisors and gum—calling for bone.

And Mama'd bring her roast in on a large, porcelain platter. Pa'd slice it so it'd show a layered heart. Brown, pink, to red—the broken veins sprawling, distinct, dark—his clean-shaven and rosy cheek. Pa'd knife and fork the slices, one or two to each plate, till I'd see the brown brick church, all the edge of flowers long since carved away.