I don’t know what the food industry people are trying to pull, but just when I was finally able to wrap my head around “chicken fingers” they spring “cod loins” on me.
You read right – cod loins! As in cod the fish!
Granted, I skipped a lot of biology classes in high school, but even I know you have to have legs to have loins. For example, when’s the last time you heard of snake loins or eel loins? You haven’t! That’s when!
Bass, bream and catfish are loin-less. So how in the world did cod fish come across them? They didn’t! That’s how!
Of course, my wife takes the fish industry peoples’ side. She’s the one who spotted a bag labeled “Cod Loins” in the grocery store and, instead of backing away in horror, paid actual money for them and brought them home. Then, with malice aforethought, she defrosted them and cooked them up in a pan with oil and spices.
Here’s the truly insidious thing: they smelled good. In fact, they smelled intoxicating – just like the food industry people engineered them to smell.
“The smell will get them,” the head food industry executive tells his subordinates at their annual board meeting for nonexistent critter parts. “Like a moth to a flame.”
All the board members snicker wickedly and twist their long, black Snidely Whiplash mustaches. “Like a moth to a flame” they chant. “Like a moth to a flame.”
The problem is, they are right. The smell does lure you in. It lured me. I am ashamed to admit it, but, despite my reservations, I succumbed to temptation just like they knew I would.
In my defense, at least cod loins look like normal strips of fish. They taste like regular fish, too. In fact, they taste pretty good. Better than pretty good, actually. With a little lemon and butter, they are pretty much out of this world. Before I knew it my baser instincts took over and I wolfed down the cod loins. I even ate the cod loins Marianne, fiend that she is, foisted onto my plate after I finished the first helping.
It only took moments, but I had become a cod loins addict. If Marianne had a Snidely Whiplash mustache, she would have twirled it with her fingers and snickered wickedly.
“Told you you’d like them,” she said, gloating.
I know when I’m beat. I have adopted a “don’t ask don’t tell” attitude when it comes to cod loins or any other odd animal part the food industry people cook up (excuse the pun).
Chicken fingers? Why not? I’ll take the thumb.
Buffalo wings. Fly them over here.
Spell “moose” m-o-u-s-s-e and dip it in whatever you want. Chocolate. Vanilla. I don’t care.
Mountain oysters – I’ll split a pair with you so long as you eat first. You eat one and I’ll eat one.
I’ve even come up with my own weird food – snake navels. I think it will revolutionize the culinary world, but first I have to grow my Snidely Whiplash mustache.