Refusing to let any blog-worthy opportunity pass, for this weekend's 3-way: Fish. Tell us a salient, pertinent, or just plain entertaining fish story.
Yum. Fresh fish. There is nothing better, really. We learned how to fish, briefly, in the Florida Keys our first year on the road, with friends who knew a thing or two about catching their own supper. But those days are gone, and now we depend on the kindness of strangers. And also on the generosity of our larder.
Bobby caught us (ha!) on a good day. We had garlic and lime and olive oil, with which we pan-fried the fluke, just 2 minutes on each side. We had a pasta-and-bean salad I'd whipped up the day before. And most importantly, we had an avocado, basil from our garden, a red onion, more lime and S&P, all of which I tossed with my homemade dijon mustard vinaigrette, to create a salad-salsa-side that complimented that fluke perfectly.
What can I tell you about fish? I’m not much of a fisherwoman, although I am quite adept at drinking on boats. I do so enjoy the eating of fish, and I’ve kept a few as pets. We had many fishies gracing the shelves of bedrooms in our girlhood home. My sister Julie had one that she really loved. And I really loved her, so much that one day I decided to surprise her by cleaning the bowl of that sweet, lovable fish. Everything was going fine, the little guy was happily hanging out in one of the sinks in our upstairs bathroom while I used the other to wash out the bowl and the rocks. I was just about done, and savoring the anticipation of Julie’s delight at my altruistic endeavor. I scooped the wee dude up to put him back in his clean and fresh bowl, and watched in horror as he slipped into the overflow vent and was instantly gone. I have never, ever been so horrified in all my life. I’m sorry Julie.
I like fishing. I’m not that good at it, but I like it. I like casting my line, sipping a beer, and waiting to see what will happen. Usually it’s nothing, but sometimes I get lucky.
One day me and my husband were lazily fishing right off Mission Beach, and as we were drifting and drinking, my husband
Our neighbor stopped by and commented on how small the fish looked to him, then inquired about its length. We had measured him on the boat, because he looked rather formidable to us, so we let him know.
Turns out we poached the poor baby. He was an little more than an inch under the legal length, still not fully mature. We killed a damn baby halibut.
He was really delicious though.