Eating Down the Bones

  I have at last became an adult. It was a long time coming, but Saturday I ate a fish with the bones in it. Not only that, I cooked it myself.
   When I was about five years old, my father got a bone stuck in his throat at the dinner table. My mother was upset and anxious, and I developed a lifelong horror of small bones in my food. I'm certain it was a chicken bone, but fish became the object of my fear.
   Last week I discovered a wonderful family seafood market in Cedar Point. They park their boat right behind their house, and everything is fresh and local. (Can you believe that much of the seafood you eat here is imported? Boo! Hiss!) On my second visit, I wanted to try some local fish.
   Sea mullet was the fish de jour. I was dubious. Sea Mullet hasn't the allure of stuffed fillet of flounder, but the owner assured me it was his favorite fish. His wife cheerfully demonstrated cleaning and gutting the fish, but not one word about filleting. She did tell me how to cut slits across the fish so that the meat would fall easily away from the bone when cooked.
   Truthfully, I did not want to get a reputation as a fish-wimp, especially as I am working toward an image of "local" as opposed to "dumb-tourist." Like they wouldn't know! So, I smiled knowingly, took the fish as is, and pictured dumping mine into the garbage.
    I came home, cut the slits, dredged the fish into a mixture of flour and a bit of yellow corn meal, and plunged those suckers into hot oil. They obligingly sizzled and turned crispy golden brown, just as my instructor promised.
    I served them up to my incredulous husband, and timidly raised my fork.
To my infinite surprise, the tender white flesh fell obligingly away from the bones, and the fish was mild and sweet. I loved it, and survived!
   Yes, I should have faced this phobia long ago, and I regret the succulent whole fish I have avoided all those years. Now that I am living at the coast, I plan to make up for lost time.
    I am reminded of an occasion when I was at a family-style dinner. A man I know and had dated long ago was seated across from me. I sat there staring at the platter of beautifully cooked whole fish before me. My friend, deep in conversation with the person to his side, was calmly filleting his fish. When he finished, he smiled and quietly passed the filleted fish across the table to me. For me, this tops my list of truly romantic gestures in my life.
   Fish with bones.... what a concept. I'm ready for the Swansboro Mullet Festival.

What the World Needs

   Driving through Emerald Isle last week, I heard an interview with Jackie DeShannon on Terry Groce’s program on NPR. (That’s on the radio, folks, down among the low numbers). I hadn’t thought of this singer in years. Terry played Jackie’s hit record, “What the World Needs Now is Love,” a Burt Bacharach/Hal David song from 1965.

   I had to stop the car. The song broke my heart, and I cried. How foolish, I thought, but Jackie’s voice and that wonderful song loosed a flood of memories so intense, I lost all hope of maintaining composure. The song was an anthem of my youth in the 60s, and it brought back feelings that I had not visited in so long.
   We the “love generation” dared to believe that we could change the world. We thought we could bring peace to a country torn by war and generational strife. We thought we could bring love “not for just for some, but for everyone.”
   The music of that time, including Jackie’s song, fired the engines of change. From the quiet strength of protest songs and folk music to the relentless beat of Crosby, Stills, and Nash and the Rolling Stones, we knew, through our music, that we were a generation united and we had the power to change the world.
   For me, “What the World Needs Now,” embodied the music and the message that lived in my heart. It expressed what I wanted for my life and for the world. Jackie’s earthy voice builds from quiet statement to passionate pleading. I hear in her singing the hope we felt; the glory of dreams, and the unabashed belief of youth that anything is possible.
   Later, I walked out to the beach and stood looking over the ocean. It hasn’t changed. Waves crest and fall and travel to the shore. Delighted children venture out into the water, looking to watchful parents for their courage. It is a scene out of time… lacking, of course, the transistor radios that were our standard issue.
   But something is different: the songs have changed and so have I. I no longer believe that anything is possible or that I have the power to make it happen. We stopped a war, but it was just replaced by others. Our lives are stressed and angry, and we did not unite everyone through love.
   We, as a generation, hoped big. We marched and carried signs. We grew our hair long and argued with our parents, demanding the right to be different and to create a new order. But we did not change the world. To borrow a phrase, "We weren't defeated by the man, we became him."
   We failed our mission, and it breaks my heart to hear the song that reminds me so strongly of what we felt and what we believed.
   I don’t know what dream young people carry in their hearts these days. I wouldn’t presume. What’s peace and love anyway in the face of global warming? I know only that song can still awaken my heart and perhaps again inspire me to bring a little love to this world.
   “What the world needs now is love, sweet love. It’s the only thing that there’s just too little of.”