I Was Late to Loving Canned Fish

But I embraced it in time for this moment

Photo: Paula Redes Sidore

Dystopian landscapes have become our new normal. Some are wrenching. Some are retro. Others, brought to me via Instagram, are unsettling to my New England core. That’s right, I’m talking about canned fish in all its oil-soaked glory.

Here in Europe, the parallel to Maine lobster shacks of my youth are the low-key restaurants devoted to good local wines and tiny tinned delights, minus plastic bibs and lemon towelettes. But for this born-and-bred New Hampshire girl, let’s just say my feelings about canned fish are complicated.

Some of my favorite childhood memories involved weekly forays to the fresh seafood market, fishermen in waterproof shades of olive green and mustard, trailing a deep, marshy Atlantic funk. My mother didn’t need Anthony Bourdain to tell her not to order fish on Mondays.

On Tuesdays, she’d select a fillet from the mountain of melting ice for that night’s dinner: iridescent cod. Pale pink flounder. Jewel-toned yellowfin.

Photo: Colin Czerwinski via Unsplash

Fast forward a couple of decades and fresh fish is more of a luxury: It demands attention and access to a supply…