On a lighter note from my yesterday's anxiousness, I had a very funny experience on Saturday. Two weeks ago, Byron and Henry and I all went fishing out in Ada. It was a very relaxing day, eating junk food while reeling in all sizes of fish. Byron of course caught the biggest and the best. Henry and I got a few too, but nothing to brag about.
When we returned to the house that day, bucket full of half-dead but freshly-caught fish, Byron revealed to Henry and I that he had no intention on taking the fish home with him. Something about his refrigerator being well-stocked. But Henry and I both lacked the experience of ever killing or gutting an animal, our closest experiences being Halo, and the Saw series.
After a few minutes of awkwardly passing the fish back and forth, Byron agreed to return at some point in the near future to teach Henry and I how to gut the fish, but until then we had to keep them. Henry was still very squeamish about the whole ordeal. Even cutting off the one fish's head so that we could store it wasn't going to happen with him.
Last Saturday, Byron returned. Henry was conveniently occupied, and I was too naive to realize what I had gotten myself into. First, the fish had to thaw. We put the fish under water for about an hour, occasionally running fresh water over them until they were soft enough to come out of the baggies. Pulling them out of the bags reminded me of something in MIB, or any of those other goo-filled, disgustathon, Science Fiction pictures. Slime gratuitously flowed from the bags along with the fish.
Producing a spoon, Byron then instructed me to grab a fish, and hold it tightly, while forcefully scraping the lip of a spoon against the grain of the scales. Scales began to shoot everywhere as Byron began on one of our captives. I was thankful it was dead; I'd hate to hear a fish scream. I looked around the sink at the other prisoners, their eyes wide with horror, and mouths gaped open in shock at their comrade's fate.
I chose one and picked it up, trying to dodge the shrapnel from Byron's handiwork. As I lifted the captive out of the sink, something clear and viscous oozed out of its mouth. My stomach winced. I picked up the spoon and began to descale the internee. It wasn't hard work, and everything went smoothly, save the almost constant backfiring of scales, as they showered forth in all directions, retreating from the attack of my spoon.
After a while, ooze and scales clogged the drain cover, and the running water filled the sink. Before us was a pool of the most disturbing soup I had ever witnessed.
"Now comes the fun part," Byron reassured me. He had obviously done this so much, the nature of the activity no longer vexed his nerves as it did mine. But I was there to finish what I started and learn from my friend.
Carefully, Byron showed me how to cut into our prisoner, just above the head, running the blade down its neck region, behind the fins, and stopping about two centimeters before a complete decapitation. We then each pulled the heads off our victims, bringing along with them a long strand of innards. It's amazing how even on something as non-human as a fish, its innards still look like innards.
By this point, my stomach was as wrinkled as a prune, and I could feel it twist and turn every time I looked at the sink. The next, and final step was to finish cleaning out everything inside of the ribs. We did this by first further slicing into the bottom of the ribs to open up the meat more. Then we rubbed our thumbs along the spine and ribs, all under running water, clearing out any reluctant pieces of Lord-knows-what-they-were.
Then the meat went back into the freezer, ready to be cooked on a later date. I thanked Byron for all his help, and for his patience in teaching me the ways of preparing fish to be eaten. Although I doubt they were prepared for it.
After Byron left, I took to cleaning, and sanitizing, the kitchen. First I had to dispose of the evidence-the leftover heads. My housemates and I agreed that I should bury them under our compost. I dug the prisoners' heads a grave and threw them in. Then I turned my attention to the guts, scales and ooze clogging the drain. With my stomach now completely tied in a knot, and butterflies tickling the bottom of my esophagus, I collected as much as possible and threw it in the grave. It was reminiscent of the Pharaohs of Egypt, buried with all of their earthly possessions. I said a few words over the grave, and then covered them up, left to the worms and raccoons of our neighborhood.
About an hour and a-severe-case-of-hand-crampage later, the sink was scrubbed in bleach and completely removed of leftover scales. No sign remained in the kitchen of any war crimes. Only the shine of polished steel, and the smell of a clean kitchen. But my stomach took a while to un-knot, and it still winces every time I think about those fish. I'll still eat fish, but I might have to give the ones in my freezer to Byron. I don't know if I can eat what I kill.
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