On a recent trip to our neighborhood Wal-Mart Megagiant-enormo-Center, my father and I sighted a genuine, not-from-concentrate 16-inch Alaskan Salmon. Its jaws agape at the prospect of being flash-frozen and trucked to the desert, I couldn't help but think that the specimen would make a wonderful addition to our family's table.
After a quick family conference where my father nodded knowingly with approval, it was determined that salmon was good, and in the name of palatable conquest, one was going home with us.
Though my mother initially voiced protest over the proceedings, the grunting of the salesclerk as he lasered the fish's SKU on the check-out line was sure testament to the fact that we had done well and chosen wisely.
Our trophy took a place of honor in the child-restraint seat of our shopping cart. We sauntered into the parking lot, welcomed by the smiles of those fellow shoppers would could not help but eye our coveted catch. They could not help but notice as we ceremoniously deposited our prey in the cargo hold of our Chrysler chariot for the fish's final journey.
A few miles of freeway later, all were safely home -- seafaring bounty included. Fish -- as he came to be known -- was once again unloaded and carted to the deep freeze, to await our hunger and his eternal fate. The brave fishermen, elated at their good fortunes, retired to slumber amid dreams of salmon glory before devouring their prize.
Days came and went, and finally Fish was summoned from the freezer to the kitchen, greeted with sharp knives and other implements of culinary battle. Our prey was released from its Ziploc limbo, and all were greeted with the subtle aroma of, well, fish.
Salmon pieces proceeded to flop in all manner over the kitchen counter, eyes glazed at the prospect of demise. Fish dwarfed both cutting board and knives, but we continued undaunted. Filleting and hacking began amongst an eager sea of onlookers, eagerest of all being an overfed feline with plans of his own.
Suddenly, however, the slicing ceased.
"Ugggggh. Backbone."
My father encountered a setback in the form of Fish's skeletal structure. The kitchen was hurriedly searched for more weapons of culinary destruction. We located a serrated blade and a few minutes later we had succeeded in liberating Fish from head. We continued, though time wore on.
As filets of fish flopped into the plastic bags I bore, my mind turned to the vast arsenal of power tools in the garage. Though their unsanitary state put me off, I knew there was a better way to defeat nature from the top of the food chain. I suddenly understood why tuna comes in cans.
By now, the cat had lost interest in our quest and instead retreated to the open screen door. He was obviously too far domesticated to enjoy in our revelry, and opted instead to lust after the hummingbirds in the backyard.
Generations of pethood had robbed him of any primordial impulse to eat anything that didn't come out of a paper bag.
As I watched more fish turn from carcass to steak, I could not help but esteem the mighty grizzly of the Alaskan wild. A mere flick of his wrist and he exerted his Darwinian superiority without any measure of doubt.
I, on the other hand, stood helpless as my father tried to figure out how to plug in the table saw.
"Sonofa. . ."
Our frustrations had grown increasingly vulgar and monosyllabic. We Clapps are obviously not genetically predisposed to fishing. As pieces of dorsal fin formed an even larger pile, I began to mentally wander to the days of yore.
Surely my bloodline would have been stopped in its tracks if survival had depended solely on the butchering of game. Even the guy from "Office Space" seemed to have fewer problems gutting fish. Still, we toiled on and eventually dinner was served to the weary, huddled masses.
The whole experience could be considered an appropriate metaphor for life. In a grasshopperly sort of way, I have come to accept my place in the universe.
In my increasingly concentrated bid to find my niche in the knowledge-based economy, I realize now that my very survival instincts have been tarnished irreparably. Not only will I never hunt wild game on the plains of the Serengeti, I'm probably equally screwed when it comes to getting cast for the next season of "Survivor."
Consequently, I've resigned myself to my fate, and now anytime I need motivation to go to class, I need only to think of wild salmon, and I will realize just how good we've got it these days.
Brian Clapp is a biology and political science senior. Reach him at brian.clapp@asu.edu
