One day one of my kids asked me where sardines came from. I thought it was one of my kids, possibly because this particular child shared my ear lobes, my brilliant blue eyes, my charming aura of insouciance, and my street address. I’ve since researched this relationship via a series of surreptitious Ancestry-dot-Com mail-in test submissions, and an exhaustive search of the file folder marked “Adoption” in my desk. One can never be too sure – no matter how many covert swabs are required.
Anyway, one of my “kids” asked me, “Where do sardines come from?” “Sardinia,” I replied. “You’re messing with me again, right?”
Many of my children have trust issues with me. Perhaps rooted in my responses to questions like, “Where did I come from?” or “What is Art?” or “Why is combining peanut butter and chocolate a perversion of the natural order?”
“No, I’m not kidding,” I said. “Sardines come from Sardinia. That’s why they named the island ‘Sardinia.’ It’s analogous to why they named that Indonesian island Java.”
“Oh, I get it,” the kid muttered while shaking their head. “Very funny, Dad, they named it Java because they grow coffee there…a cup of java, as they say. Haha.”
I shook my head, “No, they named it Java because of all the software engineers who live there. You know, Java, that object-oriented programming language that started back in ’95 when desktop computers ran on Windows. If you want coffee go to Kansas.”
“Kansas?” My response: “Yeah, Coffeyville. Google it.”
The child sighed –a deep, despairing sigh. “Okay, Dad. Anyway, sardines are awful. The worst fish in the world… So…”
“Worst fish in the world, you say? Hey, kid, ask your Scandinavian ancestors about Lutefisk, whitefish soaked in lye.”
“Soaked in lye? Well at least you’re not claiming Lutefisk is made from old guitar-like stringed musical instruments.” (The kid might indeed be mine). How do you know I have any Scandinavian roots? Did you swab me again in my sleep?”
“Never mind that.” I went on. “You want to know about a really unpopular fish?”
“Actually no, I was hoping to just go outside now and pick bagworms off the evergreens.”
“No such luck, kid. Anchovies!” Another sigh. “Anchovies?”
“Yep, oily little five-inch fingerlings that they’ve been harvesting near Sicily for centuries.”
“Never heard of them.”
“That’s because you’ve only ever gotten pizza from a Hut, or a Papa, or a Caesar… They wouldn’t know an anchovy from a basil leaf at one of those joints.”
“I assume you’re now going to tell me way more than I want to, or will ever need to know about anchovies, right? You going to go all the way back to the Phoenicians? You always start with the Phoenicians.”
“Yep. They would take those little anchovies and salt dry them in the sun and then press the oil out of them and make a fish sauce. The Romans did it too, and improved on it. Called it garum. Everybody used the stuff. It was like Heinz catsup back in the day.”
“Is it catsup or ketchup?” asked the kid.
“Never mind that for now. The Romans shipped this garum stuff all over the Roman world. And we still have it today in a modern form. We call it…”
“I know, Dad, I know… We call it Worcestershire Sauce.” I nodded with pride, “Yep.”
No doubt about it, the last box was checked. That was my kid for sure. Only one of my spawn would have nailed the answer. I made them all Puttanesca for dinner…with extra anchovies.
Listen to Otis Twelve host “Morning Classics,” Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays 6AM—10AM, on KVNO, Omaha Classical Radio, 90.7 or kvno.org.
This article originally appeared in the June 2024 issue of Omaha Magazine. To receive the magazine, click here to subscribe.
