I rarely eat fish anymore. It’s not that I don’t like fish. But the available goods are ages from the water and injected with brine to plump them up. Without a fish market in the area, my expectations are low. As a result, I only eat fish at the coast. Growing up in New York City and living in Coastal New England most of my life, I suppose you might call me a snob for good fish. What’s good? A Finnan Haddie, thick creamy chowder with a small mountain of fish in the center, or a delicious halibut stew

Just writing about this causes anxiety that someone might shove some alien trash in front of me at a restaurant, call it flounder, and leave the bill. My wife dreads the possible disarray in which I’d leave the restaurant and no longer points out that the day’s specials include swordfish.

It isn’t good. Friends down at the coast send me postcards of locally caught fish, hoping to lure me to visit. I begin to plot my escape from Central Massachusetts.

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