If you are vegan, you should stop reading right now.
Come back tomorrow, and we’ll have a nice little chat, but today, friend, you’d better be on your way.
If you eat meat, but would rather not think about where it came from, you’d best be moving along too.
It’s okay, really. I don’t mind.
See, I’ve got this husband, who likes to fish.
And since I’m his wife, and it is my sworn duty to be a pain in the butt now and then, just to keep him young, I have to talk lots of smack about how catch and release is code for “didn’t get a bite”, and how as much he goes fishing you’d think I’d actually see some fish now and then. I have to say things like, “do you actually drop your line in the water, baby? Or is this just a good excuse to drink beer with a nice view?”
Truth is, I know good and well that he catches fish all the time and throws them back, less out of a good-hearted conservationist spirit, and more because neither one of us wants to clean them.
Every now and again, though, he has to prove a point.
He has to line up stinky, flopping carcasses.
Which, of course, my boys think is grand.
I think it’s a good reason to buy stock in Purel antibacterial hand wash.
He has to turn my driveway into a processing plant.
I know where my food comes from, and that’s okay by me, but as weenie-fied as it sounds, I really don’t want to look it in the eye before I eat it.
I have a freezer full of yummy fish now though, and will be making the best ever fish tacos tomorrow, so I’m clearly not all that opposed to stinky, flopping fish, now am I? Plus, it *is* kinda cool, having just begun reading “Farmer Boy” with the guys, to know that if need be, our Papa can head out into the cold, blustery wilds and bring home sustenance.
It will be a while though before I make a wisecrack about the empty live wells. A long, long, LONG while, because next time, he says he’s going to teach me to clean the catch.