7:00 am. Not that early, but I would have loved the sleep in. Nevertheless, today was the day where I was going to learn something vital as a chef. I’ve eaten salmon most of my life. I’ve eaten it different ways. Smoked, lox, braised with soy, maple glazed, demi-cured, raw…ah yes, raw. Still, to me, the best way to eat it. And all these ways that I’ve eaten salmon bring about fond memories. Memories of watching dad stand over a steaming pot of broth, lightly seasoned with soy and ginger, as the less glamorous parts of the salmon, such as the fins, belly and tail, simmered away, soaking up the delicate flavors. Then came the feast, the family sitting at the table, fingering through the flaky flesh, taking out bones so that we can enjoy the tiny morsels of this wonderful fish. Memories of different kitchens I had worked in, pan-frying wild salmon, skin on, patiently waiting for the right moment to flip, to produce perfect, crisp skin, making sure the pan was hot enough to keep the skin from sticking, but not too hot that the proteins shoot out of the fish, coagulating into drops of white, producing not only an unattractive, but dry fish. Memories of spending hours folding delicate, thinly sliced smoked salmon into roses, topping it with caviar and candied lemon zest before placing it on a toasted ficelle or rye, with a cream cheese and caper concoction, which, when complete, will make a stunning canapé for a cocktail party. Cooks know what I am talking about. With the vast amount of salmon I have prepared and consumed, it’s about time I experience how it got there. My memories of my father fishing were vague and dated. It’s time to refresh.
So, 7:00 am. After a call from our site manager at Camp Squeah, Dan, I woke up and got ready. We drove about ten minutes, hiked another ten or so, until we came to the Fraser River. There were already some fishermen there, casting and reeling. I sat as Dan did his thing. “Today is a good day,” he said, “not as good as yesterday, but still good.” Of course not as good as yesterday! Dan came into the kitchen yesterday, beaming, as he told me he had caught two in fifteen minutes. But today was still a good day. It wasn’t long before he had his first, a stunning sockeye, fighting and flipping for his life. A few hits to the head left the fish twitching.
“Yosh, time to get your hands dirty.”
It was time. I didn’t have my fishing license, so I couldn’t fish myself, but you definitely don’t need a license to gut it. So I took it, fingers shoved into the gills to keep it from slipping out of my hands. The fish was polite as I brought it to the water. It didn’t move. So I gutted the thing, split the belly open and hesitantly poked my fingers into the body. You know, there’s just something about feeling the pulse of the animal as you scoop out their intestine that makes you really appreciate truly what sacrifice needs to be made so that I could sit at home and munch on indian candy. I did a horrible job, I didn’t know what I was doing, but I got it as clean as I could. We caught another, and Dan showed me another, more convenient way of gutting. Then we headed back.
We fileted the fish as a couple kids watched, one in awe of the size of the fish, and the other, in utter discomfort, wondering how we could have killed such an animal. We had to explain that these animals were a gift from God, and that’s why we thank him for our food. We also had some roe, and so we ate some. It was subtle, clean and delicious.
As we sat and ate breakfast (toad in a hole, with bacon, pan fried tomatoes and brown sugar seared salmon belly), and as Dan and I chatted about this experience, I realized how important it was for me to go today.
I will never look at salmon, or food, the same.
~posted by Yoshi
