Fish is Family

My mother, raised without one, vowed to give her two boys the maternal love absent from her childhood.

Her love was a bed of eggplant sliced lengthwise to soak up the fatty juices of oven-roasted chicken thighs. Or beef meatballs laced with parsley, layered over Barilla spaghetti, finished with a few shakes of Kraft parmesan from the green plastic container.

Then there was the fish.

I heard a Chinese man say “fish is family.” In South Florida, hugged by miles of coastline, the same reigns true.

Family fishing trips meant mahi mahi tossed in panko breadcrumbs, deep fried until “GBD” – golden, brown, and delicious.

We used “tickle sticks” to corral lobsters out of their dens, into our nets, and into Mom’s oven. 

We shared smiles as we dunked the fleshy white tails into ramekins of melted butter to cure ourselves of a hunger only known from hours of swimming.

by Damien Rigol