I hate fish. All out, downright, grody-to-the-max kind of hate.
My Dad was a big fisherman, both in his large stature and his large love of fishing. He bought himself a fishing boat, a 21' Starcraft Chieftain, in the summer of 1972, and would spend his summers on Lake Michigan trying to catch coho salmon or whatever else he could get to jump over the transom. My brothers were on the hook, too, so the boys head out in the early weekend hours to hop on "Jedzie Boat" and all of its outriggered glory from slip J-3 at McKinley Marina. Hours, beers, and coolers full of fish later, Captain Fred and his Crew would return to the house where these fish would get scaled, gutted, and filleted on a finely crafted table made of plywood and sawhorses. As the youngest, I would get chased around the backyard by the Crew holding fish heads and entrails covered in scales and blood until I'd scream and dash into the house, only to run upstairs and peer out of my bedroom window to watch over the whole operation from afar.
The next step was to smoke all of this pink fishy flesh in a salvaged old school refrigerator. The fridge had been stripped of all the plastic, insulation, and the toxic gas that made it stay cold. It was replaced by a wood fire in the bottom, and shelves full of fish chunks in the top plus a chimney the belched smoke out of the top during the smoking process. This smoker was placed in our backyard where the fire would be stoked for hours on end until the fish was perfectly infused, and the natural oils of the fish dripped down onto the fire creating a distinct aroma that filled the neighborhood.
And my bedroom. That gross, oily, fishy smoke filled my bedroom. It would billow in from the smoker below, and the odor permeated the entire upstairs until every fiber was covered in salmon soot. I would close the windows, but it was usually too late, and the odor would hover like a fishy London fog. The odor would make a direct hit in that spot that is in the back of your throat where the nose and mouth join up in solidarity. It would hunker down in that space, and the only remedy was a full dunk in the above ground pool to try to chorine that fishy haze into oblivion. Thus began my long hatred of fish and all things fishy.
I looked at the recipe for Caesar Salad, promptly turning the page when I read "anchovies" as the first ingredient. I know, it's just a little fish, canned, oiled, full of umami. Screw you and your umami. I just can't. No. That smell. Gross. It squeaks like Styrofoam. And bones. NO! I'll just throw in some soy sauce. Or go without. Or try a different recipe. Salt this, Samin...
Somewhere between NO and right now, I had a small epiphany: Fuck it, it's 2020. All bets are off.
I sent my husband a text instructing him on his shopping expedition to gather the needed supplies for this recipe. Romain lettuce. Parmesan cheese. Anchovies. I'm sorry, what? Anchovies? Yes, husband, anchovies. Patty, you don't eat fish. You hate fish. Get me the damn anchovies.
First, you have to make real mayonnaise, so get your egg yolk and canola oil out and get ready for a whisk-a-thon. Grate up a cup of fresh parm. Grate up a fresh clove of garlic. These activities will give your right arm tricep and bicep a workout for the week. Stare at the tin of fish.
Wash, rinse, and rip up your romaine lettuce. Stare at the tin of fish.
For God's sake, open up the tin of fish.
It's open. There it is. That stench. Grab the 4 little pieces this recipe calls for. Don't breathe. Chop it up, mash it up, make it as tiny as you can. Scrape it off the cutting board as fast as you can and put it in the bowl with the pile of egg & oil. Take a small breath. Salt, pepper, parm, garlic. Stir it up. White wine vinegar, lemon juice and what's-this-here sauce. Keep stirring. Pour it onto the romaine, mix it up, add croutons. More dressing. It's supposed to be more drenched than dressed. Serve it up in a big wooden bowl. Eat it.
Love it.
You can barely taste the fish.
But....I can barely taste the fish.
Love and fishes,
Patty
True confession: I will eat a fish fry. But then again, after enough Brandy Old Fashioneds, I'd eat a shoe as long as it's deep fried and covered in tartar sauce. But if you come near me with smoked fish, I'll cut you. I mean it.
Also, "Jedzie Boat" was named after a polka song. I just figure that out today, so thank you, it's now on repeat.
Sneak Peak: Cindy and her Braised Pork with Chiles. Buckle up!
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