A Tale of Two Fish

Reading: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, Suzanna Clarke
Listening: "Prisoner of Love," Utada Hikaru
Craving: creamy coconut cake
Mood: exhausted

Food stories of Japan begin in the ocean, where every day, countless sea creatures of all colors and shapes are pulled forth onto boats then sold at markets around the country. For the sake of opening my culinary skills to this wealth of possibilities, I purchased a small, compact text on cooking fish. The pages feature pencil illustrations that give even the scaliest animal a soft, un-intimidating appearance--as though he might leap onto the cutting board, strip off his own scales and undesirable parts, then lie calmly beneath the flames of the broiler. Thus deceived, on my latest trip to the market, I bought two fat aji (Spanish mackerel), thinking I might enjoy them as an easy dinner. I hesitated for a moment before placing the pair in my basket: their glassy eyes appeared to stare at me, and I recalled days when my great-grandmother would suck on the eyes of the New Year's fish as though they were candy.

Yet I scolded myself for being childishly disgusted, and I took my fish home. When the time had come to prepare them, I felt only a tiny fear. I kept my book open, with its instructions of where to insert my knife to remove the innards, of how to slice off the fins and remove the thick bone at the tail. Oh how not simple those instructions were.

"Hello," I said to Victim Number One as I lay him on my cutting board. He stared silently forward. I began with my knife at his tail, attempting to remove the bone that aids him in gliding through the water. Maybe my knife wasn't sharp enough; as I pulled my hand away, the bone was still intact, and my fingers were covered in sharp, slimy scales. I struggled for several minutes before abandoning my attempts, fearful of slicing off layers of my own flesh.

I decided that rather than keep the fish whole, I would fillet him. I sliced off his head, the fearsome part that reminded me he was once alive, a breathing creature. I made my cut behind his gills, which revealed his body cavity, filled with a dark red and creamy white nightmare. Using the tip of my knife, I hurriedly disposed of the mess. A headless body remained, and the tail alone remained to taunt me.

I then pushed my knife through the top of the fish, and a sickening sensation churned in my stomach. Though I cut meat often, I still encounter this odd reaction every time. I eventually worked the blade to the tail, where I was forced to make rough hacking motions to sever the bone. I was finished, with two ragged looking halves sitting amidst a bloody mess on my table. And another whole fish still in the package.

At that moment, I wished that my mom were there to complete my dirty work. Or even Chris, who has less experience with a knife than I do. With neither there, however, I faced the task of butchering the second creature alone. Though I was cooking for one, I prepared both fish for cooking, choosing to lump the trauma into one day. After I had destroyed Victim Number Two, I shoveled the remains into a plastic bag, tied it tightly, and pushed it as far down into my rubbish bin as I could.

I committed a full minute to washing my hands, then salted the fillets and allowed them to sit. I then patted them dry and lay the fish in a frying pan, where I applied a liberal sprinkling of fresh lemon juice, shoyu, and mirin. The flesh of the aji was deliciously oily, but the pleasure of its rich flavor had been ruined by the earlier debacle.

What is the moral of this story?
- Fish are disgusting?
- Eating animals is wrong?
- Convert to vegetarianism?
- Kristine is a wimp?
All I know is, I'll be eating tofu for a long awhile.