Fish Heads and Farm People
Carol and I stopped at an Asian market yesterday.
Mission: one fish head.
Not two. Not fillets. Just the head.
For broth, for magic, for reasons that don’t need explaining.
The moment we stepped inside, the smell hit us like a freight train hauling fermented seaweed and ambition.
Carol froze.
Eyes wide.
Nostrils flared.
She lasted maybe 14 seconds before fleeing to the parking lot, gasping for air like a Victorian heroine.
And suddenly, I was back on the farm.
My mom, proud and puffed up, telling Chuck she wanted to ride along to Burt’s pig and chicken farm to get manure.
“I’m from farm people,” she declared, chin high, like she was quoting scripture.
We got there.
The pile was smoldering.
The smell was biblical.
Within seconds, she was gagging, wrapping her head and face in a scarf like a babushka in a biohazard zone.
She complained for weeks about the smell lingering in her sinuses.
Carol? Same story.
She couldn’t even look at the plastic bag with the coveted fish head.
I carried it like a trophy.
She rode home with the windows down and her scarf up, muttering, “I can’t believe you bought that.”
Somewhere, my mom was laughing.
Because pride may come before the fall,
but it always comes before the stench.
