He cut up the fish and it sat in a vinegar/sugar mix for six days. On my counter. In front of the sink where I spend at least an hour of my day. In a nasty grimy jar.
It was lovely.
After six days of...fermenting...he mixed it with the pickling spice and there it sat for another five days. At least this time it wasn't so grotesque.
All of this to say, last night he made me try a piece. I had been avoiding it like the plague, afraid to mention it lest he should remember I still hadn't tried it. Well, last night, as I was grating cheese over the Fiesta Meatloaf I made, he shoved a piece in my mouth.
Good thing I had a piece of cheese to eat immediately afterwards, or I probably would have tossed my cookies.
It wasn't so much the taste of it as it was the fact that I was eating raw fish. I've never been a fan of undercooked meat. I always get my burgers and steaks well done. I can't stand seeing ANY pink. Ew. So eating raw fish was like...was like...a criminal activity. It went against all my principles, everything I believe it.
And my husband, being the outdoors-y man he is, informed me if I were ever lost in the woods, starving and alone, I could just eat raw fish. "You don't have to cook it," he said.
First off, I never, ever, plan on being lost in the woods, starving and alone. And if I ever were, I likely wouldn't be able to catch a fish anyway. And even if I did catch a fish, I probably wouldn't be able to eat it without throwing up.
So now that we have that clear, let me reiterate: I don't eat raw meat. Of any sort.