Nonfiction—Honest Seafood

My sister will not eat seafood. She is a brown-haired, brown-eyed girl, all inherited from my mother, and she is picky, an inheritance from no one. Or perhaps a suspicious ancestor—maybe the caveman who ate the poisoned mushroom?

We (the boys) are wide, sandy, blue-eyed beasts. We'll eat anything, be it a bagel or small dog. It's that cavalier attitude Mom rewarded with meals that stretched the definition of food. She was not the best cook, and sometimes pizza would be recast as "lumps," or toast as "carcinogens with a side of yeast." Nor was she the most honest about ingredients. She wanted us to eat, after all.

So, Sis found herself in a constant state of seafood consumption. She'd eat tacos and realize afterward: "These were fish tacos!" She'd eat red beans and rice to discover soggy shrimp.

My poor sister. She's had more sushi than a sushi chef.