We interrupt this dinner …

… 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?

3 people are having a conversation about “We interrupt this dinner …

  1. This reminds me of a photo my Mom snapped of my Dad fly-fishing. I remember asking her what it was like (I was around 6), and she said “it was like watching art happening.” That photo of Kevin reminds me of that. There is something magical that happens when you take a step back and not only are there at that moment, but are lucky enough to get a picture of it. Thanks for sharing.

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