So, a couple of days ago, my friend Jake and I decided to go all out and buy some fresh fish. We didn’t just grab whatever was on the supermarket shelf; no, we were looking for the real deal. And that’s when we found a fisherman selling wild-caught fish by the dock. It seemed like a great idea—supporting local fishermen and indulging in some presumably fresher seafood.
Once we got home, I was in charge of cleaning the fish. I was feeling pretty good about the whole experience. It smelled fresh, it didn’t have that fishy odor you get from store-bought fish, and I could already imagine the marinated bliss we were about to enjoy. But as I started gutting the first fish, things took a turn for the disgusting.
As I peeled back the skin, I noticed these tiny little creepy-crawly things wriggling around in the flesh. Initially, I thought they might be some sort of parasite, but Jake, ever the optimist (or maybe just the cheapskate), swoops in with his take: “Nah, those are just baby fish!”
“Baby fish?” I echoed, trying to process what he was saying. I had just seen these things squirming like they were auditioning for a horror movie. “Dude, those are definitely parasitic worms!” I replied, feeling my stomach churn. “We can’t eat those!”
But Jake was undeterred. He had already seen dollar signs floating in front of his eyes while looking at the fillets. “Come on, it’s just a little protein! We can just marinate them and it’ll be fine. I’ll even cook them extra long to make sure they’re safe.”
At this point, I was getting a bit frustrated. “Extra long? You really think that will magically turn those wriggly things into an acceptable dinner? This isn’t some cooking show where you can just wave a magic wand and make everything better!”
Not wanting to be rude, I decided to let Jake have his moment. However, deep down, I was imagining the worst-case scenario: parasite-induced food poisoning, lying in bed, unable to eat for days, all because Jake couldn’t bear the thought of wasting money on what was clearly a lost cause.
“You’re being dramatic,” he insisted, dismissively waving his hands. “These are just ‘baby fish’ trying to find their way back to their mama.” He even had the gall to start naming them, saying things like “Look, there’s Larry and there’s Sally!” Meanwhile, I was just standing there, mouth agape, watching in disbelief as he pointed out the little squirmers like they were some cute pet fish. I was not in the mood for this absurdity.
Realizing further discussion was pointless, I decided to take a step back. “Look, Jake, if you want to marinate them and eat those things, that’s your call. But I’m not touching any of it. I’ll stick to my cereal for dinner.”
Jake shrugged it off. He was already pouring the marinade into a bowl, treating it like it was the most natural thing in the world. I watched him pour it over the fish, the worms still dancing around right in front of my eyes. I could barely watch as he claimed that the marinade would kill any “bad stuff.” I had half a mind to grab the fish and toss them out myself, but part of me wanted to see where this would lead.
As he took the fish out to the grill later that evening, I made myself scarce. I could hear him chatting away with our other friends, proclaiming how brave he was for eating “baby fish.” I could only roll my eyes and think about how ridiculous it all was. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath if things went south. I was ready to laugh while he experienced the consequences of his thrifty foolishness.
Next time, I’m sticking to store-bought fish and ensuring everyone is on the same page about fish anatomy before any wild adventures. In the meantime, I’ll just sit back and wait for a call from Jake explaining why he’s regretting his “dinner decision.”
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