Pescado

For all you non Spanish speakers I have a little lesson to teach you, and it is about the difference between un pez y pescado. Un pez is a fish, and pescado is fish. As I sat at the dining table awaiting the classically late and rather large spanish lunch with a plate of fish in front of me and a little fish swimming in the tank across from me I did not really care what the differences between a pez and a pescado were, I was completely concentrating on the task at hand, get a half fish larger than my hand down, and keeping it down, while the little innocent fish swam around its tank, accusing and taunting me at the same time.
Earlier I had stood in the kitchen and watched as multiple plates of fish and shrimp were prepared in different ways for this grand meal. The reason for our large meal today was that the sister of my employer and therefore daughter of the grandma who helps me care for the children was coming home from a vacation in Russia, full of interesting stories to share during the meal, though that only becomes important later in my story. So I watched as the grandma prepared the food and we chatted in spanish about food from different places and what we like to eat/bake/not to make. One thing became clear while I watched her prepare this dish, the meal to come was going to be one that affected my entire life in these coming months while living in Spain, would I be able to enjoy many of the local and traditional meals of Spain the so often contain all sorts of sea food?
Now back to the large fish on my plate. I strategically waited till everyone was sitting and already beginning to enjoy their own food before I even began to pull the fish scales away and pry it off the bone. To an experienced eye it must have been completely obvious that I am completely inexperienced in de-boning a fish. Finally I valiantly made my way to the white, or mostly white meat, and yes with the cute little fish still happily swimming in the background. I took my first small but courageous bite...
... and I realized that if I were to enjoy fish, in a place where it dominates their food and comes fresh from the oceans of the Mediteranean and Atlantic, this would be the place. It had a slight hint of butter to it, or maybe that was just the rich olive oil grown abundantly in this region of Spain and used daily in their cooking. I took a few more small bites to see if I was just attempting to convince myself that I would enjoy this, but no, as I consumed the whole half of fish handed to me by a family that yes knew I did not particularly enjoy fish. Now even though the fish tasted quite good, and to those who know me, they must know how large a stretch it is for me to say a fish tasted good, there was still the emotional and mental aspect to eating the fish that I was not sure when my mind would catch up with me and I would suddenly run for the bathroom.
Here is where the fortune of the traveling sister comes in. Though all her stories were in Spanish, she spent the meal relating to her family of her travels in Moscow and of seeing the tomb of Lenin. The grandma watched me as much as she watched her daughter relate these stories, constantly surprised and impressed that I understand what her daughter was saying. Through the distraction of the stories and the savoring flavor of Andelucian cuisine, I successfully enjoying my first fish and further conquered my fear of eating fish but finishing the meal with a snack of smoked salmon with a cream cheese filling with walnuts and a salad of shrimp, tuna, potatoes, and corn.
Though I must beg forgiveness for spending an entire post bragging of my success with the local cuisine, I can now with confidence and in my own conscience recognize the difference between un pez y un pescado, the one you eat and the other a beloved pet.