Fishy legacy
Everyone in my family used to think I was some kind of weirdo. My father still does. Even my sister, a sometime-vegetarian who's partial to bacon and sausages, thinks I should have grown out of it. But I haven't. I just can't help it: I hate fish.
For a family of avid pescivores, a non-conformist was a constant source of bother. 'Can't under-stand why you won't eat it,' my mother would grumble. 'I spent all day cooking that.'
'It's a wonderful flavour,' my father would chip in. 'Don't know what you're missing.'
But I did. And it didn't matter how they complained, or force- fed me, or refused me sweets or dessert until I'd finished my fillet. I never learnt to like it.
Everyone else seemed to like it, so what was wrong with me? It must be psychological, I decided. A mental scar from the first time I found a nasty grey bit in a fish-finger. Or maybe the scary fishmonger who came to our Repulse Bay apartment every Wednesday with his stinking bucket spooked me.
More likely, it was the memories of those chilly summer mornings spent mackerel fishing on holiday in Britain. Watching dad rip the hooks out of their mouths then bang their heads against the gunnel until they lay inert inside a bloodstained plastic bag. That would put anyone off.
Fortunately, no one else in this family suffers the same affliction, I think as I serve garoupa one lunchtime. Three-year-old Emily starts wolfing it down while I offer baby James a piece on his fork. He sniffs it suspiciously. Then he tastes it, his nose wrinkles in disgust and he spits it into his bib.
I'm alarmed. Normally he's so greedy. I try to press a second bit into his mouth. It ends up on the floor. 'Come on James,' I urge. 'It's delicious! Yummy, yummy, fishy. Mummy made it specially for you.' I'm beginning to sound like my mother.
James' eyes plead with me. I sigh. What have all those parenting books told me about mealtimes and being strong? Giving in now means separate children's menus forever and double the work for me. But I know where he's coming from.
'You're right. It sucks. Let's have something else.' I give him my unfinished portion of chicken. Noisy feeding ensues. Emily starts to shovel James' leftover garoupa into her mouth. James looks at me. I look at him. We're both thinking the same thing: weirdo.
