Just for the Halibut

Today I was scanning my freezer, searching for inspiration for dinner when I came across one lonely little package of Alaskan halibut. It's the last survivor of the bounty of frozen halibut that recently inhabited this shelf. While it’s not going to work for tonight, it brings back memories from a dinner recently. Dark memories…

First, I better explain a little about the halibut. My mother lives on the Kenai Peninsula in Alaska and on her trips “outside” she brings us halibut that is often just days off the boat. It’s the best halibut I’ve ever had. She is a true connoisseur and only deals with the best product possible. Like the fresh halibut cheeks she brought down a couple of trips ago. Heavenly! 

When she makes an appearance down here, people line up to get their hands on some. The process of delivering then distributing the halibut on these trips would be the envy of a major drug smuggling ring (I’ve seen the movies!) It’s carefully portioned, vacuum sealed and frozen in Alaska, then packed into an ice chest that she checks as her baggage on her flight. Her only baggage. No room for frivolous items like clothing and toiletries. Those can be purchased here. 

Once it arrives in the lower 48, the halibut is doled out at the inevitable large family gathering (my mom has 9 brothers and sisters, so I do mean large.) The amounts given out are determined by a complex secret formula that I am not privy to. I suspect bribery may be involved but I have never been able to prove it. Luckily, my immediate blood relation seems to be enough to score a large portion.

I think I have established that I value (covet?) this halibut. I have painstakingly conditioned my two older sons to dislike fish of any kind just so I don’t have to share mine with them. I haven’t been so lucky with my 9-year-old, but I have some time to work on that before she leaves the nest. So no, covet isn’t too strong of a word.

Back to the dinner. My baked halibut is subtly seasoned as I want the delicate taste of the fish to shine through. My darling Rick sits down at the table with his plate full and innocently asks “Do we have any XXXX tartar sauce?” Silence. My daughter freezes, fork halfway to her mouth, eyes like saucers. Seconds tick by and seem like hours.

The “XXXX” in this case isn’t a swear word. That would have been better. Bad manners, but better. 

And it’s not the fact that he’s putting tartar sauce on the fish. I love my homemade tartar sauce, absolutely love it, but personally I reserve it for french fries or fish & chips. So putting some of my tartar sauce on this halibut would warrant, at the most, a barely detectable eye roll from me.

What Rick is referring to a certain brand of tartar sauce. I don’t want to say the name but suffice it to say that it is also the name of a seafood fast food chain that used to be everywhere but is now down to just a few locations (Hmm, I wonder why?)

This substance has a weird taste to me. When we were first dating and I indulged him in such nonsense, I went to no less than 3 grocery stores trying to find this particular brand for him. I finally figured out why I couldn’t find it. It’s kept in an unrefrigerated aisle of the store with a shelf life I wish I had. Attempting to pronounce the list of ingredients would make a food chemical engineer weep.

But I digress. Back to the dinner table again. Everyone is waiting to see what my reaction will be. Would there be dishes thrown? An hour long crying jag while locked in the bathroom? Not that I have ever done any of those things…

I decide to take the high road. I muster a smile and manage a “No dear, we are completely out” through clenched teeth.

But the next time he makes his Famous Brown Sugar Prime Rib, I’m grabbing the ketchup bottle.