“Can’t be that hungry, then,” he teases, ripping off a chunk between his teeth. “You’re not kissing me again until you brush your teeth.” I unravel the last of the paper to find a sculpture inside. It takes me two hands and a moment of rolling it this way and that, taking in all the angles, to identify the two coiled birds. “Wow. Is this handmade?” I ask, sliding my thumb over the surface. It’s smooth. “Yeah. Ethel carved it over the winter,” he says between chewing. “It’s ivory.”
