Herring
As a young boy, I loved to do things with my dad. He spent a lot of time at work, so I looked forward to the times he would take me with him on Sundays so I could help clean the store, straighten out the stock, and do miscellaneous little chores in exchange for a chocolate milkshake or soda.
One weekend, he decided to take off from work to go fishing in Rock Creek. I was all in, despite the fact that I was sick with a fever and sore throat. Rustled up out of bed before the sun came until a a very chilly morning, I remember taking the ride there, feeling miserable.
Once we arrived, my father tried fishing but had little luck with with gear. I stood off to the side, bundled up but cold, and just wanting it to all be over. Across the rocks, I observed other men fishing and continuously pulling fish up out of the water. My father watched, too, and decided he had to take a different approach.
We headed back home, where I went to bed. My father caucused with a neighbor and together they headed back out to Rock Creek with empty laundry baskets in the back of our station wagon. At the right spot, they dredged the baskets in the water, and pulled out a full basket of fish, which were heaved into the back of the car. They repeated this until the car was full, and they them headed for home.
For the rest of the day, my Dad and Mom and the neighbors worked furiously to clean the fish, pounds and pounds and pounds of boney herring. They stuff a good lot of them in a freezer and gave much away to neighbors.
It seemed like a significant part of the next year, we had herring for dinner every night. Herring for breakfast. Herring for snacks. Herring for dessert. Finally, we could not take it anymore, and took the rest of the frozen fish to the local Catholic convent and gave the bounty to the nuns.
I have not eaten much fish since then