Prompt B: Another Fishy Reflection

The first time I ate Idaho rainbow trout, the fish was fresh caught and fire grilled by my friend’s father. We camped near a river or lake—I don’t remember which, I don’t even remember how old I was…near nine. But I can still taste the washed white flesh tinged with lemon and a touch of smoke. Like the few loaves and fishes, there was not enough to serve all that sat, staring longingly, but we each received a bite and were filled although continually craving more.

As a part of the fourth grade focus on Idaho history we learned about trout, took a field trip to a reservoir to learn about the grueling journey they made in order to maintain their way of life despite the domestic disruption of dams. I peered through the thick glass that separated me from green water and a few of the sojourners, their top lips hooked over the bottom, their gills flared red (almost bloody) and I loved the hideous creatures—loved them even more for my own salivating viciousness. I wanted them to survive, to procreate, to continue traveling: I wanted to eat them baked, fired, fried. I craved them in their bloodless state, in my mouth, while supporting their existence.

My husband does not like fish. He tolerates it when necessary and avoids it most of the time. He asks me to cook it for myself occasionally; he offers to cook something else for our family; he suggests this out of love—yet eating fish is intrinsically social. I need others to lick their fingers ravenously, pass lemon pepper, search for fine bones, dangle their forks tempting themselves with each bite of rich meat.

I’ve never understood how some vegetarians discount fish as meat. It is/was definitely animal before food.

I love tasting the marinade of many waters in my mouth like the song of river-softened stones. I love the crackle of fire and smoked seared into pink or chalky white body—patterned with experience and vigor. A fish does not stop swimming, it does not sit idle in the water as we do in air. It odes not tap the glass to the hand of a curious child. Aloof rather than noble, a fish—especially trout—gaze at the world unaware of their allotted time, however knowledgeable of the pressing urgency.

The first bite was my favorite, though unseasoned. I devoured it greedily (almost unholy in a sacred act) and too speedily to appreciate. My tongue recalls the shock of delight, the chatter of relaxed friends, charity shared with little girls.