Worlds Colliding

In seven months (give or take) of trading stories with Henry, I have heard a lot about Henry’s friend from Minnesota -- the guy who, with his startlingly agreeable wife, owns and runs an apple orchard in his spare time. In the heavily Jewish enclave of Brooklyn where I grew up, we would just go out and buy our apples (in a store called The Orchard, of course), where the fruit is always shiny and perfect and somebody else has gotten his fingernails dirty to keep away the rot and the worms. Not that shopping at The Orchard is all that easy, by the way, as anyone who has ever tried to park on Coney Island Avenue would know.   

As luck would have it, our jaunts to southwest Florida coincided, and I would finally get to meet the apple orchard folks. I liked Henry's friend from Minnesota immediately, the tall bearded guy waving his arms at us from the other side of the bar. Lanky and, I could tell even from a distance, ridiculously good-natured. Even his wife exuded warmth. Lutherans, no less. I would have expected them to be quiet, more reserved, hardened by the Minnesota cold and a little bland, like Jello. Not that I'd ever buy into stereotypes.  

Dinner was filled with stories of adventure, with each of us trying to one-up the other. We Jews got trounced. They regaled us with tales of near death on black diamond ski runs and strict codes of conduct for compassionate deer hunting and scuba diving in murky waters with sharks. We fought back hard, trying to entice them over to our hotel the next day to plunge down plastic water slides into heated pools and brave the exhilarating current of a lazy river without the security of an inner tube. Extreme skiing, rifle toting hunters, meet bunny hill afficionados who think hunting is the thing you do with real estate agents. Still, we seemed to have much in common. 

They invited us over to their vacation rental for dinner the following night. They would grill. So much for the long list of restaurant recommendations my friend had given me, but I was happy to make a sacrifice to spend more time with my new friends from Minnesota. My heart sank a little when they mentioned they’d be grilling fish (I'm a card carrying carnivore), but at least it would be grouper. I like grouper. I just have a thing about catfish, which seemed to be a popular menu item in those parts. Later, I explained all this to Henry, who was a little worried. I assured him I would never offend my hosts, and anyway there was nothing to worry about as long as I didn’t have to eat catfish.  

Well, you can guess where this is going. When I said I would never offend my hosts, apparently I was lying. My knee jerk horrified squeal was a dead giveaway. Henry was mortified. There’s nothing rational about my aversion to catfish, other than they’re ugly and I avoid eating things with whiskers. I choked down a bite. I’m sure it was delicious, but all I tasted was ugly hairy bottom feeder. I moved it around on my plate as best as I could, and ultimately onto Henry’s. You can take the girl out of Brooklyn, but you just can’t make her eat catfish. 

Now that Henry and I are out of the way, they are probably sky diving and surfing and trolling the gulf waters for catfish. Back in the land of delicacies like deep dish pizza and big fat juicy steaks, I remember fondly my risk-taking meals with my new friends from Minnesota.