Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Floor Salmon

While grilling some salmon earlier this week, I was reminded of a story involving grilled salmon that happened several years ago.

I'd had a pretty crappy week. Things had generally not been going well and work had gotten exceptionally busy. I decided that night to treat myself, so, with my daughter in tow, I drove 15 miles out to the nearest butcher shop and purchased a very fine looking salmon fillet. I proudly showed it to my daughter, who was about 4 at the time. She wasn't interested so much in the fish as she was in the details of how one's body turns food into poop. That's a topic for another post.

I brought the fine fillet home with me. I was low on funds, and the fillet had cost much more than I had expected, but I was certain that it would be worth the expense. I eagerly prepped the outdoor grill. I gingerly placed the last of my charcoal into it (the sadist in me likes to make a little house out of the briquettes and put a little matchstick men in it and around the outside). Soon, bright orange flames were happily licking the fillet, cooking it to perfection. I was so proud of this salmon that I called a number of close friends while I was grilling it.

"You hear that?", I would say, placing my cell phone near the flames. "That's the sound of the most perfect fillet of salmon being grilled".

When I was satisfied that my meal had been grilled to perfection, I placed it on a plate and came inside. I sauntered to the wine fridge to retrieve a bottle of Pinot Noir, a gift from a good friend. As I turned around, one of the cats had gotten under foot. I can hardly blame him, for the smell of the salmon was heavenly. He couldn't help but heed its redolent siren call. However, his presence in my path caused me to trip. It was all I could do to prevent myself from tipping over. While I attempted to regain my balance, I dropped both the salmon and the wine. They fell to the floor together in a crash that not only ruined my dinner, but broke my heart as well.

The cat ran off to hide, and I would not see him for the rest of the night. I could only stand there, transfixed by the events that had just occurred. As I stared down at the wine-soaked remains of what had once been the perfect fillet, I could only hold my head in my hands and silently lament its passing. My daughter, upon hearing the commotion, came into the kitchen. Upon seeing me, she ran up behind me, hugged my leg and said "It's okay daddy...you can cry if you want to...".

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