to voice over artist Tim George
the part of Hank Peabody
Tim George's website to learn more
about his work
A Pisces Dinner
from The Reeducation of a Turd Peddler
by John Henry Peabody
ON MY BIRTHDAY, SEAN AND I SAT FOR A MEAL of fish. Heany was off work
and, thus, out of uniformnot a feather or bill to be seen.
No pelican work today, he confided.
As it was March, we both shared a birthday and had shown
up for our fantasy birthday lunch Janet had provided each year with
the help of a local fishmonger.
The table was covered in blue and white porcelain dishes and bowls filled
with smoked mackerel, anchoviesboth brown and whitehaddock,
chilled prawns and even cockles. There were smoked clams and oysters,
dried seaweed, Japanese seaweed and Irish dulse that Sean stuffed into
his mouth between chomps of smoked salmon. I liked the crunchy, sweet
flavor of steamed, chilled octopus legs, tako in Japanese, that we dipped
in soy sauce, brushed with wasabi and rained with lemon juice before
We ate steamed cherry stone clams in garlic juice with two
fresh bay leaves, salt and pepper, the shells sounding like billiards
clacking whenever our hands reached into the pot. In the broth, amongst
the clams, sat lobster tailslocal Pacific spineywhose tender
white flesh was soaked with a dew of woodsy chanterelle mushroom. In
lieu of abalone, we ate patties of great keyhole limpets which had been
malleted flat, dusted with flour and quickly fried in butter. On large
platters sat local oysters on the half shell with various dollops of
helper toppings like sea urchin, salmon, and flying fish roe. Atop that
we laid chopped scallions, beads of lemon, and champagne pools of soy.
Heres to iodine poisoning! Sean lifted
an oyster and sent it back over his tongue, savoring the creature as
it left flecks of shell on his teeth which he pulverized and swallowed.
I laughed. God I love to eat fish.
Of course, Heaney savored the mollusk. I
heard Janet was looking to get us a vintage can of dolphin to crack
That aint fish, I told him. And
forty odd years in a can ought to be rank.
Thats your field, old shit.
I suppose, I reckoned.
We toasted, glasses full of slightly cold ale. As we knocked
one glass against the other, a spot of brew flew and landed onto the
Ah! Sean delighted. Wonder what that will
taste like, as he heaved the oyster up and over. Mmmm,
eyes up in his head. Sudsy!
Sudsy, or yeasty? I enquired.
Ehhh . . . savoring. Sudsy, yeasty,
an eyebrow raised. And briney!
Together, we toasted again. Sudsy, yeasty, briney!
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