I mulled over an all-encompassing Theory of Everything as I was squeezing a lemon over my filet of flounder for dinner tonight. First I pondered why seafood and lemons go so well together. I figure it has something to do with sailors (I was in New Orleans during Fleet Week, so don’t blame that spectacle for inspiring my theory).
As every schoolboy learns, when sailors of yore discovered that the terrible illness they tended to develop after long months at sea – scurvy – was, essentially, Vitamin C deficiency, they took to sucking on lemons and limes. The Brits must have been early adapters of this health regimen, since we still slur them as “limeys.” I imagine it wasn’t long before some sailors got sick of that silly “pucker” face one makes when sucking a lemon and got the bright idea of squeezing the citrus fruit over the catch of the day. They must have taken this bright idea to shore, and the corporate Red Lobster chain was born!
That mystery solved, I got to wondering why I love seafood so much. For this, as most things, there’s a woman to thank. A number of years ago I began dating one of my favorite ex-girlfriends, a pesco-vegeterian who was on a curious shellfish kick, and ignited my own love affair with the creatures of the deep (Come to think of it, she also had a charmingly kooky tendency to suck on lemons and cackle that it was to “prevent scurvy”). Day after day, week after week, we gobbled up mussels, clams, lobsters and shrimps together. Naturally, as I taught myself to cook, these were my chosen quarry.
The more I think about it, though, she unlocked a hidden desire for the fishies that was planted there by my father. The enthusiasm that dear old Dad showed on those rare occasions when Ma (ever the paranoiac about food poisoning) would cook up some scallops or prawns clearly inspired some insatiable desire inside me. (I realize now that I am practically inspiring Ma, the eternal lurker, to register on this Blarg, or at least sign up for the Live Journal feed.)
So where did my Dad’s love of seafood come from? This, I am fairly confident, can be attributed to his foster Mom, much like my dependable tendency to shout out “Svigna!” when someone belches or farts in my proximity. Like every frugal eastern European immigrant, Grandma sought to enroll her kids in the Clean Plate Club. Grandma was a particularly effective brainwasher when it came to convincing her charges that the ugliest, nastiest bits of leftovers and gristle were, in fact, delicacies. Why, you should see my father drool over the turkey’s asshole at Thanksgiving!
So, of course it would follow that Dad considers the ugly creatures of the deep to be a rare treat, and that opinion has rubbed off on your narrator. Let this post serve as my Father’s Day tribute. Cheers, Dad, and thanks for all the fish.