When it comes to sushi, I have no class

When I was growing up on Cape Cod, I would go to the fish pier every Sunday morning with my Dad to pick up a fresh fish. Part of the ritual would be to stand on the dock and watch the boats unload. While the men all exchanged their secret language of growl and spit, I would stand off to one side watching the fisherman prepare their fresh catch. Many times a fish would jump the box and lay flapping around on the deck of the boat. The fisherman would pick it up, push a fish knife into the lower belly, and with a quick twist of the wrist the fish’s internal organs would come bursting out and hang down like grapes. The fisherman would then pull the innards from the fish, toss the fish in the lift bucket and off it would go to the market. The ghastly smelling innards were tossed to the irrepressible seagulls hovering and shrieking above.

Several times while looking at the neat rows of raw fish displayed in the fish market, I would see long tall almost transparent worms standing up from the flesh, looking around. Seaweed was used to decorate the edges of the inner display case but no one ever dreamed of eating it.

Now here I sit at a beautiful teak counter watching the sushi chef do his art. He slices the raw fish delicately and rolls it up in sticky rice, wraps it in seaweed and garnishes it with ginger. He makes another pretty roll and adds lobster and shrimp.

Once I found out that lobsters are like seagoing cockroaches they were removed from my ‘food for Kathy’ list; …and now I’m not so sure about shrimp either.

Anyway, even at this enlightened age of “fty-something” I cannot separate myself from my early memories of fish processing and therefore will never be able to take part in the trendy practice of devouring raw fish. Even wasabi won’t help.