Cedarville Magazine
|
17
The season’s first salmon hang headless in my daughter’s hands, one fish in each, as
she walks them up to the hill to the house. From the front steps, I can see their heft and
length, the shine of their silvered scales, their shimmering backs. I am anxious to hold
themmyself. It is the first week of the commercial salmon fishery, a profession my children
and husband have worked in nearly since birth. For me, it’s been 33 seasons here on this
remote Alaskan island.
I grasp their tails frommy daughter on the porch, slide their arm-length bodies onto the
counter-sized cutting board. With one hand firm on the skin-thin armor, I begin to steak
out the fish with the other. How many salmon have I gutted and cleaned and portioned on
the shore of my island, on this very cutting board these 33 years? How shall I cook it, this
fish we have been waiting for all winter? Shall I grill it with melted butter, minced garlic,
and white wine, my favorite flavors? No, for the first fish, something new, something untried
and spontaneous. I rifle through my cupboard pulling down brown sugar, a spicy pepper
blend, parsley ... formulating, as my hands consider each potential spice, a slow idea of
what I would aim for, yes, this time a sweet and spicy crust.
The
Spirit of
Food
by Leslie Leyland Fields ‘79
continued on page 18
