Yesterday marked the arrival of a much anticipated addition to our home: “The Gantch.”
You may remember my post back in November about Doug’s trophy fifteen-pound salmon he pulled out of the lake at Mount Tom State Park. So enthralled was he with this fish that he affectionately named it (short for “Gargantuan”) and promptly took it to a taxidermist, who’s been working on it ever since. Yesterday he received the call he was waiting for: the Gantch was ready for its debut.
Here’s where I need to backtrack. The day Doug caught that fish, he couldn’t stop talking about it. “You should’ve seen that thing fight!” he raved, describing how it took him over a half hour just to tire it out before yanking it out of the lake. As he stood there in our kitchen beaming at it, the Pisces in me was screaming.
The taxidermist wouldn’t be in until the following Monday, so Doug decided to store it in our upright freezer. (There’s nothing like being stared at by a dead fish every time your kids ask for a popsicle.) He thought it should be reassuring to me that we’d get the meat back, and that every ounce of it would be eaten. But in making that promise, he forgot one little detail: he can’t stand the taste of fish.
Because the fish had been in our freezer, the taxidermist recommended its meat should not be refrozen. And so, Doug promptly took it home and marinated all fifteen pounds of it. “This stuff is worth $10 a pound,” he declared. “That’s over $150 of meat!” He grilled it and put it in the back of our refrigerator.
And for nearly a week, that’s where it stayed.
Unfortunately, I am not a big fish-eater myself, not to mention I have this thing about eating a creature after I’ve looked it in the eye. But I couldn’t stand the thought of a fish who fought such a valiant fight die in vain. And so, I did the only thing I could think to do—I grabbed the tarter sauce and began to eat.
I ate and ate and ate. For ten days and ten nights, I had salmon for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I ate salmon for a midday and midnight snack. I ate so much of it that everything I ate long after it was gone tasted like the bottom of an aquarium.
When the Gantch came back home to us, for Doug, it represented a triumphant victory of man vs. nature. He held it in his hands and marveled at its intricate, remodeled fins and shiny, lacquered scales. He proudly hung it on the wall in his mancave and has not taken his eyes off it since. “I still can’t believe I caught him,” he says, half to himself and half to whoever might be listening.
But in my mind, I’m the one who deserves all the glory. I look at that fish from head to tail and only one thing comes to mind: I can’t believe I ate that entire goddamn fish all by myself.
Beneath the fish is a plaque: “Caught by Doug Lariviere on November 4, 2011, Mount Tom State Park. ‘The Gantch.’”
On spite of my fish sympathies, I see the look in his eye, and I must admit, I am happy for him, even if it means I have to look at a stuffed fish carcass every time I venture downstairs to do the laundry. But still, I can’t help to ask myself every time I see it…where the hell is MY name on that plaque?