One man's ceiling

Hockeyman and I rose at five and lugged out to Lake Chabot, a state park about fifteen miles from us. By the time we arrived, the place was filling with walkers and boaters and families seeking inexpensive entertainment for their children. The family fishing beside us on the dock was one of these; they had three small children.

It was foggy and freezing, maybe 48 degrees. Nobody was catching anything. Suddenly one of the little boys gave a shout: his toy pole with its SpongeBob Squarepants bobber was bending alarmingly. His parents grabbed the pole and proceeded to reel in a four-pound carp. The fish wasn't much smaller than the child, who shouted with happy amazement. Fish and child were duly photographed, the golden fish gasping on the dock. Then the parents sighed. Too bad there were no Asians around to give the fish to. Asians love carp! They said. But it isn't bass or trout.

Toss it back, the mother said, before it dies.

And so the beautiful fish went back into the water, avoiding sashimi or gefilte fates.

As Paul Simon says, one man's ceiling is another man's floor.

Culture, Food