Baked Haddock

I am ashamed to say, that even with the bit of New England blood running through my veins, I am not a fan of fish. Or any seafood, really. My sister, on the other hand, has fully inherited the seafood-loving gene and will happily down a plate of good fried shrimp or gobble up a lobster or two. Family trips to Maine invariably involve at least one seafood meal, whether it be a lobster feed or a visit to Captain Mike's in Brunswick. And there I sit, surrounded on all sides with my sad plate of chicken tenders. It's difficult with all of them oohing and ahhing all around me to enjoy my fried poultry. 

"Lobstah"

There's a picture of me as a little girl, twenty-five years ago or so, meeting a lobster for the first time. There's an open cooler and my father's hand holding a very-much-alive lobster. My dad's finger is out, as if he is gently stroking the crustacean to show how docile it is or maybe he's instructing me that "it can't possibly hurt you." I, on the other side of the frame, am not convinced. My little four or five year old self is drawn back in uncertainty, hands drawn protectively to my chest, my profile showing concern. I don't think I ever did touch it.