Last night I lost my smelt virginity,
after avoiding the fish an eternity,
not wanting one to pass my lips,
unlike its cousin fish and chips.
Just the smell of that fish frying,
was not something for which I was dying,
and in my Maritime armour, it was a chink,
in my Canadian chain, a missing link.
I regard fish as an answer to the medicinal call,
and the fish I like best, doesn’t taste like fish at all.
So with trepidation, and even less elation,
I joined with friends of the fish fry nation.
Amid childhood haunts and remembered places,
stories of scooping smelt in riverside spaces,
and discussing differences between the Restigouche and Miramichi,
I found the fishy fare in front of me.
And after a bite or two,
I was the only one using knife and fork, who knew,
it was finger food to be picked up by the tails,
having previously been cleaned of its entrails,
and after a generous dunk in the homemade tartar sauce,
glances from side to side and then across,
I got it right with a nod from the boss.
And as to my first time?
I can’t say it was sublime,
but, like first time sex,
it left me interested in what comes next
and wanting to try again—-
next year!
In the meantime,
pass the potatoes please.
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G says a fair description of the evening. Looking forward to next year!
Fish Fry Nation, made my mouth water and lonesome for New Brunswick. One of my favourites! Haven’t had smelt for years. My son promises to have some in the freezer for when I get home this summer.
Always look forward to your weekly poems.
Do I detect a lack of enthusiasm for these boney little fish? For me–there is not enough tarter sauce in the world to make them go down!