FISH

I actually do like fish, in spite of my mother's best efforts.  Throughout childhood the only fish "dish" I ever enjoyed was fishsticks, and I use the word "enjoy" very loosely.  It would be more correct to say that I tolerated fishsticks.  My first memory of fish is unpleasant.  My mother had served some unidentifiable white fish that was full of bones.  I remember her admonishment to us kids as we sat at the dinner table:  "Now this fish has bones in it, so make sure you chew it very carefully and spit out all the bones.  If you swallow one, you could DIE."  Nothing can take the fun out of fish more than the thought of one false swallow and you're dead.  I chewed my fish very carefully.  I chewed it until it became a paper-like paste in my mouth.  I carefully removed every tiny bone and placed it in a little pile on my plate. And then, finally, I swallowed it - little by little, just to make sure I hadn't missed any bones the first time around.  It took me ten minutes to finish the tiny piece of fish on my plate. Uncharacteristically, I did not request seconds.  My conclusion from that experience was this: fish are too much work.  Oh, and by the way, they taste like paper.

Another memorable dish my  mother used to serve was salmon patties.  This is a dish that has mercifully fallen by the wayside over the years.  She served these salmon patties with a Heinz product called "Chili Sauce".   As I recall, it was very much like ketchup, only lumpier.  I have no idea how she created these salmon patties, but I assume she purchased canned salmon and added a mixture of milk, eggs and breadcrumbs.  What was particularly loathsome about the patties was the strange tubular bones in the salmon.  I was assured by my mother that these were "OK to eat", but I did not want to eat them.  They had a crunchy texture to them, and although they did  not kill me, they did not make for a very pleasant dining experience.

The first time I had a fish or seafood dish I really enjoyed was on one particularly memorable Easter Sunday.  In our family we had a tradition on Easter.  After church we would go out to eat.  Sometimes the restaurants would be fairly close by, but other times we would take a drive to a restaurant.  This particular Easter we drove down to Key Largo (we were living in Broward County at the time).  We pulled into the parking lot of one of those typical seafood restaurants, with weathered wood siding and pelicans on the pier.  (I could never resist the opportunity to quote poetry, and upon viewing the pelicans I launched into one of my favorite limericks:  "Behold the lowly pelican, his beak can hold more than his belly can.") Upon being ushered into the fine dining room, complete with white tablecloths, red glass candleholders, and various fishnets hanging from the walls, we were all handed large menus containing a multitude of seafood selections.  I read the menu carefully, and read it again.  My eyes lingered on an exotic dish called "shrimp creole".  The price did not seem too exorbitant, so when the waiter came to take our order, I ordered it with confidence, casting a sidelong glance at my parents' faces to make sure I wasn't going too far overboard.  Neither raised an eyebrow.  The dish was served to me in an oblong metal dish, still bubbling from the oven.  Hot pink shrimp were swimming in a rich garlicky, tomatoey broth, with bits of onion and celery floating about for good measure, and the whole concoction was served over a bed of lovely white rice. I had never tasted anything so delicious.  That day marked the dawn of a new era in my life.  I suddenly realized that perhaps there was more to this whole seafood thing than I had ever imagined.  I also realized that if I wanted to explore the finer aspects of fish or seafood that I would have to range beyond my mother's kitchen.