That Fish Carcass is Staring me Down.

Adrian got home tonight from his annual fishing trip.  The few hours after he gets home are arguably the worst part of the whole trip (for me).  What takes place is a veritable ichthio-massacre.  Our kitchen is unusable as blood and flesh get strewn across every available surface.  This is revolting, but when you take into account that I loathe raw fish entirely, it becomes unbearable.  I am less than helpful.  I usually hold my nose, complaining loudly and throwing myself about the furniture.  I think that last year I took myself out for a long lunch.  To be fair though, the year before that he had made soup stock and I nearly died in horror.  The stench of steaming fish carcass was seared into my nostrils and I dreamed of their little skulls at a rolling boil for days.

This year, however, the trip came after a lovely week in PEI spent reflecting on how wonderful my life and my family are.  I was seized by a fit of love and generosity and offered to help (Yes, a fit.  Like a seizure).  In the interests of full disclosure, there was a trade involved. I got Twizzlers and Thai food, and he had a date at the dog park before dinner.

I was somewhat surprised when Adrian stripped down to his underwear prior to processing the fish.  Obviously I understand now, as processing fish is like wrangling limp wet eels into body suits.  They oozed fluids all down my arms and even into my shoes.  There were scales inside my elbow.  And I used the term 'wrangling' and not 'slicing', as Adrian wisely put me nowhere near the knives and I safely stayed in my vacuum pack corner.  

Not surprisingly, I picked up the vacuum packer skills easily.  I am remarkably quick-witted, after all.  I gagged and whined my way through the whole ordeal, but it took only half the time it usually does to process it all.  Thanks to me, the gamest partner ever.  And Adrian was in great spirits, saying cheery things like 'isn't it nice to spend time together doing something different for a change?'.

By the end, our kitchen was awash in revoltingness.  And Adrian was standing in the middle of it,  still holding his filleting knife with blood up to his wrists (and, remember...in his underpants), like some scene from Deliverance (I don't know, I've never seen the movie.  They hunt in it, right?).  And why are we saving that bloodied bowl of belly flaps?

Anyways, this was part of the haul, and while I look somewhat thankful to be finished, I am also wary as I will be expected to stomach much of this fish:

"What?  There's another cooler?  You're joking, right?"

I know what you're going to say, and no; I did not wrangle fish in that dress.  As soon as we were finished filleting and sealing I immediately changed into something nice, even though it was 10pm.  One has to be careful not to go too far when setting precedents.  There must be a line somewhere, people, and when the kitchen is swimming in blood and slippery carcasses, this dress and glass of wine clearly state:
 'All right.  Come chat with me when you're done.  I'll be the clean, drunk one'.