Spring and Sushi

This past Monday, because of my typically unbearable spring allergies I left work early to go to the doctor. The weather was absolutely smashing. On my way home, with windows rolled down I looked out into a fantastically green pasture, simply amazed at the contrast of brilliance with blandness. And then, as a perfect complement to the mood, The Cranberries "Ode to My Family" hit came on. All bets were off then. Especially when I began singing at the top of my lungs. The surrounding barbarians seemed curious.

It's completely understandable why the ancients held fertility festivals with nothing but day after day of wine and screwing...and a few animal sacrifices, but who's counting? Spring is a time of new beginnings, a time of birth, a time of ecstasy. They knew this. So do I.

At some indiscernible point on the road, I lost awareness and began thinking about a recent happening in my life.

A few weeks ago I had a most remarkable experience, the kind of experience that makes planet Earth such a fascinating place.

I went on a business trip—well, a drive down the beltway, really—with the big boss and a contractor. So it's just me and the big boss around 12:00 PM or so. He asks me if I'd like to join him at the local Japanese restaurant for the lunch buffet. "Absolutely, Dr. Naylor," I replied. One thing you must understand—and this is a phenomenon related only to my current boss—I in no way, shape, or form can ever tell my boss "no." I know not how this predicament arose or how it cemented. I have come to accept it, however, for there are some things in life that one cannot change; this is one of them. There is no foreseeable limit to this odd eunuchism of mine. Quite plausible it would be if the big boss said something like, "Scott, sometime today I want you to jump out the third story window." "Oh, sure. Yes, yes, of course, Dr. Naylor, I'll get on it right away, right this second in fact." "Oh, and try to do a swan dive on your way down; it'll be bloodier that way." "With pleasure, Dr. Naylor. Absolutely. I'll have my blood on your desk by the end of the day for sure. Have a good one."

Anyone who knows me intimately understands that, having spent three years there, I simply love Japan. They also might know that Japanese food, as far as ethnic food goes, ranks fairly low on my list. I will say, though, that I have come around more as time has passed. Indeed, my most recent stay there I tried raw squid in addition to sashimi twice. Both times I was not repulsed beyond imagination as per the first occasion but simply left unimpressed. Sashimi is basically a tasteless, cold piece of raw fish dipped in soy sauce. Excuse me for not agreeing with all the hullabaloo; it was bland. And raw.

So the big boss and I arrive at the restaurant. I was fully aware that there would be little possibility of avoiding the sushi buffet. I gave it scant thought. Strangely, when one is left without choice, there is no reason to dread. Quite without hesitation, I followed big boss up to the buffet and proceeded to cover my plate with various colored and assorted raw pieces of fish placed on top of rice balls—sushi. I wasn't shy. And when I got back to my seat, after finishing my plate with some fried rice in addition to some Korean veggie specialties, I spared no time in attacking the sushi. First one, hmm…not bad. Second one. Third one—until my plate was empty. As soon as big boss suggested seconds I made my way straight for the sushi bar. The second time was even better than the first. There was no holding of the breath while methodically chewing. Nor was any booze needed to wash down any lingering slivers or any persistent fishy aftertaste. It's all quite remarkable in addition to being a completely unexpected breakthrough.

Friends, if I of all people can come around to sushi, well then anything is possible.

Also unexpected has been a touch of cockiness my sushi conquests have entailed. My Ukrainian coworker came into my office the next day. She made small talk and asked the obligatory questions about my trip. When the subject came around to the Japanese restaurant, since she would be in that area on work a couple of days afterward, she mentioned something about Japanese food not agreeing with her barriga. I quickly, and with a very under-the-radar shit-eating grin, interjected: "Not into raw fish, are you?" (I mean, after all, why wouldn't you be, freak?) "Ahh…sushi schmushi…" she replied. "Ohh…you don't know what you're missing. I love sushi, love it," responded I, the sushi connoisseur.

Fast forward to last week when we went to the same restaurant for yet another business trip. This time there would be no pressure from big boss. I would dine with the Ukrainian and another coworker. We arrived, settled in, and marched up to the buffet bar to do some fishing. This time was promising to be different for there was no reluctance, no shame in my heart; thus I was in full attack mode; I was gonna eat the hell out of some fish, really pound it.

That shit-eating grin was really showing as I happily plucked no less than two sushi from each platter. The total had to have been at least fifteen. I'm sure some people were annoyed by the amount of time I took not in choosing but simply loading up.

I didn't wait for my companions to even get back to the table before I dove in. I really lost myself in it; nay, I completely forgot to calculate the carb count, which would later come back to bite me. And then, I noticed that of all things—and entirely unknowingly—I was doing airplane motions—just like some annoying mama and her babe—with my chopsticks and sushi: "Blowfish Airlines…Flight #$14.99…approaching Conway Airport…11:00…landing gear deployed…….burp." The moment was particularly up-tempo as I had Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up" on repeat mode in my head.

I returned for seconds, my plate even more full than the first trip.

About midway through plate two, the evaluation moment came. I bit into a piece, and it tasted a little, um, fishy. The inevitable doubt began to whisper, growing louder and louder until Astley's voice was drowned out.

But then I reproached myself for harboring thoughts of jumping the good ship sushi, "Don't give up; have faith in sushi; you've come this far; don't give up on sushi; trust it." And then I started hearing Astley again. And, with a belch, that was that.

The rest of the day I was belching and holding back fish farts in crowded rooms of stuck-up, overly opinionated dweebs.