Please Don't Tell Hootie

Well, indeed some did utter the phrase, "Have you seen Mamitiana's cock?" Mamitiana being a man, and his cock being (more fully named) a cockerel, a young rooster in other words. Most people pick up a sunhat or a lovely seashell necklace when they visit the beach, but Mamatina opted to purchase a future cock fighting contender. And despite several valiant rescue attempts on Cindy's part, the sleek black bird is not currently living on our porch.

And likewise, while Cindy was performing a thorough culinary dissection of a fried tilapia, she did slide her plate over and inquire, "Is this an eye too?" Apparently the first one she ate was not as tasty as one might imagine.

So that leaves, "Hurry up. A dead blowfish waits for no man!" To be honest, no one did say that last weekend. However, there was the perfect opportunity to use such a phrase, but regrettably no one took advantage of it. A waste considering the chance to proffer dead blowfish witticisms are few and far between.

How does one find oneself availed of such an opportunity? By taking a sunset stroll along the beach. We strolled and waded out to a lovely sandy point and found waiting for us among the general flotsam and jetsam our very own dead blowfish. Now one doesn't look a gift dead blowfish in the mouth. (Actually we did; they have amazing teeth!) We thanked our lucky stars and began to paw and fawn our wonderful find.

Perhaps it would be more fair to say I began to paw and fawn. Cindy began to admire just out of pawing reach. The balloonous beast was the size of a soccer ball and as prickly as a...well, let's just say blowfish.

And then, in the orange tropical gloaming, tar black back lit palm trees still in the breezeless air, I found myself in a situation I never imagined: I set about removing the spines from the dead blowfish.

I know what you've heard, "Oh, it's as simple as pluckin' spines from a dead blowfish." Let me tell you, whoever came up with that pithy little ditty never knelt in sea muck, fingers bleeding, trying to hack and twist out a blowfish spine using as a knife the sharpest piece of cuttlefish cartridge he could find. No simple task I assure you.

In a few minutes I managed to wrest one giant and lovely spine free. Then, the thin light fading, we bid our slightly bloated friend ado. Promising, of course, to return the next day with more light and the appropriate cutlery.

That night, after a fine meal of grilled kebabs, we laid our salty heads to rest in our bungalow. Rain began to tap on the grass roof, the air cooled, the hiss of a roiling distant sea filled our ears. And, when on the verge of sleep, my slumber halted by a pesky strand of beef between my teeth, I did not fret. A hard fought solution lay right there on the nightstand.

In seconds, my new found toothpick had done its duty; and my wife, seeming unfathomably less satisfied than myself, remarked something about our next kiss and all the toothpaste in the world.

Ah, what price glory?

I'm sure if we had been stranded on a deserted island for several weeks, this would seem perfectly normal.

And the moral of the dead blowfish story: Never give up (unless of course you're the dead blowfish, because it's pretty much too late for you).

I don't read a lot of Martha Stuart Living magazine, but I would be surprised if she never had an article on how to turn a dead blowfish and some driftwood into a lovely cocktail party skewer set. Laugh or cringe if you want, but you won't find us heartlessly killing innocent trees for disposable wooden toothpicks ever again. However, we may not be seeing you attend one of our dinner parties ever again either.