Today my parents donated a whole salmon, fresh off the boats, to the Cubey Salmon Fund. Alright, there’s no such thing, but don’t tell that to my parents. I scored a pink salmon out of it.
As a longtime resident of the British Columbia coast, I know all about how how to prepare salmon. I’ve seen it all done before, from the rod to the plate. Catch it, clean it, trim it, wash it, and cook it. Nothing to it.
I’ve eaten a lot of salmon too — barbecued, baked, smoked, raw — but as I looked this little fellow in the eye, it occurred to me that I’d never prepared a whole one before, myself.
Then it made a face at me. You know, sticking out it’s tongue at me. Or maybe that was my imagination.
I hesitated for a moment. How could I let this happen? I’ve caught salmon bigger than this, but I have to admit that I usually let someone else deal with the messy bit in the middle and go straight to the eating part. Don’t misunderstand — I’m no wuss when it comes to raw meat, but here was an obvious gap in my experience. It was time I faced up to my responsibilities as a coast-dweller and prepared myself a fish. So I rolled up my sleeves (mentally, since I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt) and set myself to the gruesome task.
I took out my kitchen knife and prepared for the first incision, whereupon it slithered out of my hands and into the sink. Pretty feisty for something this long out of the water. Dragging it back ashore to the cutting board, I managed to hack off its head before it knew what was coming. Strangley, this didn’t seem to improve its mood — it was good and mad now.
Some minutes later, when the dust of battle settled, I found myself smeared to the elbows in salmon guck. My kitchen counter was fairly swimming in the blood of my enemy, but the glorious victory was mine! Qapla’!!
It seems to me that people should become more involved with the preparation of their food. Too often we’re insulated from the realities of a carnivorous diet, and it would be greatly educational to experience more of the process. For example, we should buy more whole chickens. And when we want steak for dinner, we should hack off a chunk of a cow (assuming it’s already dead, of course). And when we want tofu, we should have to shoot and skin our own tofu beasts. We’re far too insulated from the brutal carnage of the tofu hunt.
So tonight, as I feast on salmon, I’ll feel more like a true west coaster than ever before. Nevertheless, I’m so glad it was already gutted when I got it.
