I went to buy Quebec mackerel today at the Atwater market. I saw it there at a very reasonable $4.95/lb (I think) last week. The fish are very small, but that’s perfect if you’re going to brine them and cook them whole, preferably on an outdoor grill or in the oven where they won’t stink up the whole house.
Unfortunately, Poissonerie Atwater was out. No more mackerel. My next choice was the Quebec turbot. Also wild. Also sustainable. Also affordable at an economical $8.95/lb or thereabouts. Also out.
They were expecting another shipment later in the day. Fair enough. Fresh fish is better fish. But what was left over? The only thing left that was wild and sustainable (and almost affordable—$30/lb Alaskan black cod? No thanks) was the Florida red snapper. $11.95/lb. More than I wanted to pay, but what choice do I have when I have people coming for dinner and I need to brine something? That’s a ridiculous sentence.
Speaking of ridiculous sentences, the man at the Poissonerie was talking to a guy about smoked salmon. The man was making an appetizer and wanted something with a lot of maple flavour.
“Maple-y?” said the fishmonger. “You want something maple-y, then?”
Then he though about it…
“Is that even a word?”
Little did they know a woman taking a copy-editing class was lurking behind the metaphorical curtains. (That would be me.) I shook my head “no” and smiled in a sweet, don’t-hate-me-because-I-probably-seem-like-a-know-it-all kind of way. See, the irony is that I use words that aren’t words all the time. So the first thing I did when I got home (good copy-writer that I am…) was check my blog to see how many times I’d actually used the word “maple-y” because it seemed like something I would definitely say.
Zero times. I used it zero times in three years of made-up words. Incredible. Tap, tap, tap myself on the back for that one.
Then I checked Midnight Poutine, just to be sure. I instance, but not by me. I had used “fusion-y” and “gluten-y,” but never “maple-y.”
Flash back to the Poissonerie, the fishmonger is feeling a little silly for making up a word. A man who wields a long blade for a living is not one I make fun of lightly.
“Smidgeon?” he says about the quantity of maple-smoked salmon the man will want. “That one’s definitely a word.”
He glances at me for reassurance. I nod encouragingly.
“Hey smidgeon, go wrap this up for me,” he says to a younger guy working. “Smidgeon—that’s what we’ll call him.”
He was so close! Alas, correct word, improper usage, I say to nobody in particular, which is good because nobody heard me, and especially good because nobody kicked me out of the store without my wild, sustainable, relatively affordable red snapper…
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