Fish Camp

We take the bike out on one of the few summer nights of this year, over the bridge with the blur of lights and long strands of cars. We move through them, back and forth, swerving and me screaming, my bag banging against us both and my dress flying in the wind.

In Brooklyn we go to the fish camp and despite the inexplicably dim staff (why don't they usually have the back patio open on nice days? Who can say?) and tremendous wait and flat glasses of beer and not enough homemade chips for the vinegary ceviche, we wait it out in a corner wooden table that needs to be wiped.

Our name is called and we get to go outside at the long wooden tables with the hanging lines of little lights and the air heavy with pot smoke from the kids who live next door. We get crab claws with parsley and lemon, thick chunks of lobster tail on split rolls, shoestring fries and striped bass with chickpeas, and more and more flat beer. And we laugh with the old folks next to us who are joking over strawberry and marscapone sundaes and decafs and we're all talking about the pot smoke while our charmingly bespeckled waitress keeps calling it "marijuana clouds". So we order the bread pudding even though we're going to be sick and it's high with whipped cream and caramel and it could be the best thing we've ever tasted. It's worth the stomachache. All of it. Just like it always is...