This is a story about fish.
More specifically: One fish. Meticulously prepared. For me.
This fish made it’s way from cold water of the arctic circle of the pacific ocean, to my local whole foods grocery store.
Although the fish’s species was indeterminate, I was sure about one thing:
This fish was going to be delicious.
It was cooked African style – whole – with the head on. A reduced tomato based stew was lovingly ladled over the fish and it was wrapped in foil while it was nestled inside the oven.
I had tasted a bit of this fish when it was first baked.
It. was. delicious.
I couldn’t wait to dig into the fish.
When I got home, there were some friends over. As I started to process of warming up the fish to make it ready for the gasto-journey I was going to embark on – I noticed some of my friends eyeing the fish with interest and perhaps..desire?
I wanted to eat the fish.
I felt like after a whole day of thinking, hoping, wishing, and dreaming about this meal, I deserved to have it all to myself.
I announced this aloud to the room. Repeatedly.
I saw the light dim in some of my friends eyes.
My girlfriend pulled me aside.
And reminded me that the fish might be divided but the love would multiply.
I took a deep breath.
Shared my fish.
My friends shared their loaves.
And at the end we had a lot left over.
Of both food and love.