Читать книгу Maine Metaphor: Experience in the Western Mountains - S. Dorman - Страница 8

The young guys next-door have been laid off their seasonal resort jobs. They’re getting by, till the next job, on scant unemployment compensation and assorted fish. These fish come mostly from the smelt pond in the next town.

This afternoon the quiet tall fisherman brought over an eel—headless, skinned, gutted, curled back on itself—and asked if I wanted a taste. The eel had turned itself sideways when hooked. At first he thought he’d snagged a branch. It had to be dragged, fighting sideways, through water. I peered down at it lying coldly on the plate. Sans head, it was twenty two inches long and about two inches in diameter, steel-blue and lined with a series of thin ridges. Eels seem like prehistoric precursors to other species (but not enough to convince me that they have themselves actually evolved from anything in particular).

Undaunted by my silent trepidation, he proceeded to cut it into thirds. The flesh inside was pinkish off-white. I thought the coloring owed to its having been caught the night before instead of the minute before. The fisherman said nightcrawler was the bait.

He took each piece, dredged them in cornmeal and flour, and gently grilled them in my iron skillet. As they cooked, he rummaged around in the refrigerator and, coming up with mayo, mustard, pepper and pickle, concocted a sauce for the eel.

The eel tasted light, kind of like catfish. The flesh was slightly mushy, but the crispy coating counterbalanced. I asked what the creature had looked like before it was skinned.

“Grayish-green; light-colored along the underside.” And there had been fins, top and bottom, from midpoint to tail. Its bones had peeled right out in cleaning. Eels can be caught, as well, in Indian Pond. This is according to my friendly neighborhood fisherman.

I went upstairs to my desk and left him to clean up. Just before he left, I yelled my thanks down the stairs. Not bad, I thought. You’ll live.