I grew up in a new two-bedroom apartment. It was part of a six-plex at the end of the street of identical duplexes with a couple of those old brick apartment buildings—you know, the ones that always smell like old, old soup. My Mother was so excited to have a utility room. It was for the washer and dryer we didn’t have. It was filled with boxes, some unidentifiable stuff hidden behind an enormous wooden screen, and my Dad’s huge old dresser from when he was a bachelor. This dresser was so wide it blocked the light switch. I didn’t like to shove my hand behind the dresser to turn on the light. I was afraid it might get squished in an earthquake. So I’d go through the room in the dark when I needed to get to the musty little bathroom in the corner.
I thought the utility room was room was creepy. It was almost scary, but not really that interesting. I knew my path; I didn’t really need the light. But sometimes, just as I stepped inside, I’d get it right across the face—a stiff, cold, wet, stinky tail—a herring tail. My mom was soaking the brine out of a herring before she pickled it. It would be in a ceramic bowl on top of Dad’s dresser with the tail sticking out.
This would be real herring, the good kind, not the kind that comes in jars so it has to be boiled until it’s soft and the slimy skin falls off. My Mother’s herring would stay stiff and a little crunchy, with slick skin hugging the meat. The whole utility room smelled like brine, fish and then the vinegar.
All I wanted was a warning that I might get hit in the face with a herring. It’s pretty gross. But it’s what you have to go through for good herring. It was a hopeful sign of family Sunday mornings to come: mornings filled with many kinds of stinky fish; mornings of love.