Last night I made some salmon for my husband.
(Because we live in Alaska now and must eat salmon. It’s the law or something.)
Anyways I cooked the fish in the oven and then some fried rice on the stove to go with it. But my husband was late getting home from work and I needed to leave. I wasn’t sure if the salmon was done all the way yet, but I thought it probably was. I decided to switch off the oven.
I got GG, my sixteen-year-old, to watch the twins for me. I told her to tell her dad to serve up dinner when he got home. Then I told her that there was salmon in the oven and to get her dad to check it and make sure it was done.
When I got home from choir practice about two hours later, I could immediately smell the cooked salmon when I came into the house.
I asked my husband, “How was the fish?”
He said, “What fish?”
I looked at him. “The fish I made for dinner. Didn’t you eat dinner?”
He looked confused. “Yeah,” he said. “I ate the food you left on the stove.”
I said, “What about the fish? Didn’t you eat the fish?”
“Do you mean some kind of metaphorical fish?” he said. “Because there was no fish on the stove. What fish are you talking about?”
I went to the kitchen and looked in the oven. The fish was still in there, kind of dried and blackened. I took it out without a potholder, since I certainly didn’t need one now. “This fish! This fish I made for you!” I yelled.
“I didn’t know there was fish in there,” he said.
“You didn’t notice that the whole house smells like fish?” I said. “And GG was supposed to tell you to check on it!”
He said, “Well, she didn’t.”
We both looked at GG, sitting on the couch texting and ignoring us. She looked up and saw the ruined pan of fish in my hand.
“Oh,” she said. “I wondered why the house smelled like fish.”