We'd gotten a little casual about where we ate, with most meals at the butcher block island, its wood top sometimes kale or beet stained from dinner prep, and usually still damp from a quick wipe-down. I was craving some formality. Not the kind that dictates which side of the plate the fork goes — I admit I still get turned around on that one — but the kind of formality that comes from giving something its own special place. The way a dancer has the stage, a photograph has a frame, or a tree has its earth. The formality I craved was to give the food bound for our bellies its own place of honor.