In which I reveal my deeply held hatred for ingesting things that swim...
I don’t eat fish. I don’t eat any manner of sea creature.
These facts are not outrageous when you grow up in land-locked Pennsylvania. But if you tell New Englanders you don’t eat fish, they give you this look of incredulity and repugnance that is usually reserved only for Yankees’ fans.
A few years ago, we moved to Massachusetts, where my husband was born and raised. Approximately 95% of Geoff’s family live in New England, and he doesn’t associate with that remaining 5%. Adjusting to life here has been a little bit of a challenge. There are quite a few quirks to New England. The hardest to get used to were:
The fact that I still have trouble with these three things combined with the not-eating-seafood thing made my odds of ever being considered a “real” New Englander about as good as seeing the Sox win another World Series in my lifetime.
But I beat the odds.**
This weekend Geoff and I went to visit his relatives at the Cape. We walked along the beach on Sunday looking for sea glass. I found a piece of green sea glass that was finished and contained the bottom part of a bottle. Apparently this is a Really Big Find in terms of sea glass collecting. My Aunt, who has collected the stuff for years, was very excited about it. She has a gazillion dollar house on the beach but present her with a piece of broken trash you found and she is forever grateful. So grateful in fact that she said, “Now that you’ve found this piece of sea glass you can automatically call yourself a New Englander.”
And there you have it.
When I give my acceptance speech for my entrance into the Society of People Who Call Themselves New Englanders (SPWCTNE, for short), I guess I’ll have to thank Heineken.
*Seriously. What does it mean? No one can tell me.
**I know you’re asking: how’d you do it Megan because we’d like to know? So I’ll tell you because I’m a kind and generous New Englander.