on trout, life, and death
And I wrinkled up my nose and didn't feel very 'homesteady' at all. I did not want to clean them. These perfect, beautiful little fish - it just seemed so barbaric to cut them open. I thought about it as I steeled myself, and came to the same conclusion I always do: I am recognizing the worth of an animal life sacrificed so that I can eat. And it's kind of uncomfortable. And humbling, and good - that's how it's meant to be.
Then over trotted Phillip. "Those are dead now, right, Mama?"
"Yes, they are."
"But they were alive, right, Mama?"
"Yes, they were."
"And Bompie caught them for us to eat."
"They're slippery! And pretty. Look at the spots, Mama."
I cut open one of the fish, and found eggs inside.
"That fish was going to lay eggs. But she can't now, because she died."
I silently thanked the trout for being our supper. And that felt right.