400 Degrees for One Hour

This evening I invited Elizabeth over for dinner. Her family owned several Italian restaurants, so she knows all the conventions of professional cooking. I, on the other hand, grew up in a home where pork chops were broiled until they were as crispy as potato chips, where salt shakers were empty decoration [all the adults had high blood pressure], and where most meals started in boxes [Tuna Helper, macaroni and cheese, TV dinners, etc.]. We cooked Thanksgiving turkeys in giant plastic bags sprinkled with flour. Elizabeth was convinced I made that last detail up until I showed her those very bags for sale on a shelf at Publix. Needless to say, I always have tremendous anxiety when Elizabeth comes to my house to eat.

I sometimes enjoy meals prepared as they were by my two kitchen-clueless parents, like browned hamburger mixed with a jar of spaghetti sauce served over gummy noodles. So I tried to cook the salmon tonight as close to the way I ate all fish as a child: baked in the oven for one full hour at 400 degrees. I did season with salt and pepper as I don't currently have any Mrs. Dash [the only seasoning my family used]. When my parents were still married, my father often went freshwater fishing and brought home bass to eat. Wild fish, I frequently heard, was full of worms, so it had to be cooked until all the parasites were dead. My parents agreed that one hour would surely eradicate the unappetizing contamination.

Elizabeth tried to convince me that 20 minutes at a lower temperature was better for the fish, would improve its taste and texture. Although she is the kitchen expert, I insisted that the flesh needed forty minutes more to ensure that all of those dreaded worms—real or imagined—were dead.