My mind keeps tumbling back, bringing tears to my eyes, to his eyes, laughing like happy babies, every time he opened the Styrofoam cooler box Captain Antonis would send from Poros. One time it’d be packed with black sea bream, the next with plump red porgies and other times with blue-spotted and white bream. From the young amberjacks and silversides to the groupers and poor cod, his eyes would light up with the same anticipation. Dad loved fish.
You should have seen how his entire body would practically glow when he told me how to cook parrotfish. We rub them, uncleaned, with plenty of salt and, once they’ve been cooked in the oven or over a grill, you remove the fish from their scales, which are tough and fused together like armor. The sweet, whitish flesh inside retains all its juices, gently steamed inside the shell of its scales. He told how in Kalymnos, or somewhere else, perhaps, they’d use the fish’s innards, after removing the bitter gallbladder, and whip them up in a sauce with olive oil and vinegar. And how, over there in Kalymnos, on the very edge of the country, they’d weave the octopuses they caught into tight balls and dry them that way, removing as many tentacles as they needed when they needed them. After they were rehydrated in water and plumped up, they’d be cooked with rice or pasta or stewed with onions and tomato.
