… to bring you a fish.
It was actually last night’s dinner, and I was in the kitchen, preparing the dough for my smoked oyster ravioli. I was listening to an audiobook (I’d like to report that it was something edifying, but it was one of Lee Child’s Jack Reacher novels), and I thought I heard, through the overwrought dialogue, the sound of my husband calling my name.
I turned off the book and, sure enough, I was being paged from somewhere outside. I went out the kitchen door.
“I’m down by the pond.”
So I went down to the pond, where I found my husband, in hipwaders, casting into the water against the backdrop of a beautiful sunset. There was a trout on the swim float that serves as our deck, and there were fish breaking the surface all around.
We only had one rod set up for trout, and I took a couple of casts, but the fish were just a little far out for me to reach. Kevin casts a bit farther than I do, so I figured he’d have a better chance.
He got another fish before it got dark, but it was small enough that we let it go. I gutted the one he’d caught first, and he put it on to smoke with the oysters. It’s now in the refrigerator, waiting to become dinner.
The next time I gripe about missing New York, will someone please remind me of this?