Angoel (angoel) wrote,

Every so often, I have the cunning idea to buy a fish for dinner. What could be more pleasant, I reason, than a nicely fried fish, fresh from the pan, served with a few vegetables and a jacket potato.

When I attempt this, I invariably find that said nice fish is full of bits of bone, strange eldritch organs, the use of which man was not supposed to know, and odd flakes of skin that get everywhere. That getting it out of the pan involves a logistical exercise of splitting it into three, vaguely mashing the middle and strewing fish over everything else that I want to eat. That eating everything at the same time is a logistical nightmare because I invariably start cooking one of the constituants a bit late. And that after all that, you get so little fish, that all that was left was a mouthful, and a lingering (and I mean lingering) fish smell.

One day, I vow to myself. One day, I will get it right.

And I ignore the traitorous voice suggesting that this will involve going to the chippy instead.
Tags: life
  • Post a new comment


    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic