Much of our vacation was spent among nature. The preschooler found hermit crabs and moon snails in the tidal flats. He was also a pro at catching butterflies in his net. The toddler was less skilled at apprehending rabbits and seagulls. However, Husband was ridiculously adept at catching crabs (the delicious kind) as well as hooking a 15-lb. snapping turtle. All were set free (including the dangerous extraction of a hook from one hissing and seriously pissed-off turtle).
I caught a few minnows, but they barely made a dent in my appetite, so I headed to the nearest fish market to stock up on some striped bass. I grilled it up on the Weber and topped it with a simple tomato, basil, and garlic salsa (seen in the picture with a Mediterranean barley salad).
I was doubtful that the preschooler would eat the bass. As a veteran of Gorton’s delicious fish tenders, he recently graduated to salmon. Still, I always worry when the name of the fish on our plates directly corresponds to something he might find in his Peterson-Field-Guides-To-Every-Living-Creature-In-The-Universe that he has committed to memory. He’s a sweet and gentle boy. I tend to call it just “fish.” The ambiguity seems to be a lot easier to swallow.
But, he overheard us refer to it as “striped bass.” “Striped bass?" he said to himself, thoughtfully. “I didn’t know we were having dead basses for dinner!” With that, he plopped himself on to his chair and grabbed his fork.
That’s my boy.
But, these? These he wouldn’t touch.