Fish Night
Rosemary and that other smell drift by his nose. His occasional forehead wrinkle warns me before he even utters the words, “Fish night?” My stomach twists and happiness fizzles. Why is he always disappointed on fish night? The agreed upon weekly dinner formula is three fish, one beef, one chicken, one vegetarian and one “other.”
I collect tantalizing fish recipes online. Cook-books line the shelf, dog-eared to pages with fancy fish. The fish market man greets me by name offering yet another recipe card featuring fish. The spice rack in my pantry boasts purple basil, funugreek, and a special curry blend. Experiments in olive oil infusions add “sciencey” flair to my kitchen counter. Good food, bene-factions of love to family and friends. Table lingering their gift. Like Napoleon Dynamite I offer a “delicious bass” as a token of my undying affection.
His idea of a fish supper involves batter and grease, preferably with fries and hush puppies. He confesses thoughts of food occupy better than 50% of his brain time. It used to be sex, but now his mantra goes something like this: Food, sex, food, family, food, dogs, food, work, food. Given a choice he will fill the pantry with white rice and pasta and the freezer with bacon and sausage. Fish wrapped in bacon stuffed with sausage served on a bed of rice with lots of butter irons out any wrinkle on his brow.
As newlyweds we were a perfect food match. I delighted in his savoring the prepared meals. He aimed to compliment, I aimed to please. No longer newlyweds, time marched on.
He tries. I am disappointed.
I like it. He does not.
He had a heart attack. I did not.
I am compliant. He is not.
We both eat the fish.
Latent autoimmune diabetes of the adult, type 1.5, has ravaged his heart, liver, kidneys, eyes and feet. He is 54. The dinner formula is an agreement of strangers – us, a doctor and a dietitian. They desire to keep him healthy, my desire is more complicated. Three nights is more than four nights on a calendar. Three fish nights keep his heart healthy, but it breaks mine. Three nights is a lot…for both of us.
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