Look, Good Friday is a serious day for reflection. But eating fish doesn’t have to be a gloomy chore. It can actually be a little fun—a break from the normal routine.
Think about it: when else do you gather with a crowd of strangers and share a communal pile of fried pollock? It’s like a flash mob, but with tartar sauce.
And if you’re home alone, eating a tuna sandwich in your sweatpants, that’s fine too. You’re part of the fish tribe now. Welcome.
The Secret Pleasure
Here’s my favorite part: the next day. On Saturday, you wake up, crack open the fridge, and there’s leftover fish. Cold fish on bread tastes like victory—because you survived.
You didn’t cheat. You didn’t sneak a burger at 2 a.m. You endured the fishy breath and the lingering smell of oil in your hair. And now, you can have a steak on Sunday like a champion.
That’s the trade-off: a day of mild inconvenience for a story worth telling. Plus, you get to tell your friends, “I ate fish, and I didn’t even cry.”
