I’m not a fish guy. Or at least I wasn’t. Growing up on the shores of Lake Erie you got to thinking that all fish were poisonous. But since being in Tasmania, I’ve changed. Tasmanians, who have the ocean within sight no matter where they are on the island, seem to have it in their genes to love seafood. In the last few weeks, I’ve had Stripey Trumpeter (didn’t know there was such a thing), Abalone (on the BBQ with a bit of chili), Squid (as a matter of fact, it was the same squid that we hauled up on a wobbly fishing trip and which, once on deck, promptly attacked me with a massive spray of salt water and god knows what), Whiting (white-ing, as I found out too late after ordering a whit-ing), Barracuta (spelled differently, sounds the same, is different), Flathead, Oysters, Mussels and, lastly, Flounder.
My father-in-law, Chris Fuglsang, is a man who has not ever tasted a fish he didn’t like. Every single fish that has ever been on his plate is a fish that he has been happy to devour. He’s also a master fisherman and a master cook. Tonight, he brought out a Flounder, which he’d BBQd on the grill outside and instructed me how to eat it (as I’d never been confronted with an entire fish on my plate before).
