How to Eat Majikku

#3 - Pan-fried salmon.

I always wanted to be a cook. Otōsan said it's a delicate practice, owning a sushi restaurant.

He slapped down a tray of freshly-caught salmon in front of me.

"Cut, Noah!" He ordered.

"Pepper-crusted in the frying pan!" I shouted gleefully. Father smiled.

I laid down one slimy fish at a time on the wooden cutting board, peering over my shoulder every few minutes to see if father was watching.

An hour passed. I picked up another one--but this time, it was alive!

Shocked, I dropped the fish and looked behind me. I was alone. The great salmon's golden eyes looked at me, shining brightly.

#2 - Smoked salmon.

The salmon, with its silver-pink hue and twinkling golden eyes, gazed at me and the knife. Its lips moved, begging for mercy.

"Noah?" Father called.

I dropped the knife. The sharp steel clanked against the floor! I grabbed the salmon and ran past Chichi.

"Where are you going!?"

I bolted for the outside pond. The salmon's eyes glowed happily. I could hear father cursing.

With a giant splash, I flung the fish into the silky, blue water!

"He's alive!" I pleaded with my angry father, costing him $18 a pound. Chichi grabbed a giant net. My eyes grew in horror.

"No! Please!" I ran after him. "Majikku!"

My father stopped. "What!?" He snapped.

"Majikku! His name's 'Majikku'!"

"WE. DON'T. NAME. FISH!"

"But he's magic, papa!"

His eyes glared at me.

A new tradition began. That night, and every week thereafter, we opened the sliding kitchen door to the outside pond, eating smoked salmon with parmesan-pistachio potato crisps.

I'd wave to Majikku from the kitchen table, and Majikku bobbed his little fin waving back at us. Father rolled his eyes.

#1 - Salmon teriyaki.

Years passed though, business struggled. Majikku grew so big and we grew much thinner.

People used to watch Majikku while they dined. As he aged though, he grew fatter and slower, and they became disinterested.

"You tried, Majikku," I confided to him, hungrily tossing what little piece of bread I had left into the pond.

"I love you, Majikku," I said, "even if we have to leave you behind."

A tear, or bead of water, rolled down Majikku's face.

Majikku looked at my parents on the porch. Then at me. Then at the sharp rock garden by the pond.

"No," I panicked. "We'll be fine, Majikku!"

He swam to the pond's edge and faced forward.

"Don't, Majikku!"

He leapt out of the water!

"Majikku!"

Suddenly, father lunged behind me! Majikku slipped through our fingers, landing on the sharp rocks, scales covered in blood.

Mama gasped. Father stared in disbelief.

My heart sank.

That night, we didn't go hungry. Instead, we had salmon three-ways honoring Majikku:

1. Pan-fried, when a silly, little boy saved a silly, little fish.

2. Smoked, remembering laughter that filled an empty restaurant and home.

3. Salmon teriyaki--noting a flavor of life, friendship, love and kindness.