many years ago, my niece came home with a goldfish from some sort of school affair—a right of passage, as much a part of americana as state fairs and the sopranos—at least in new jersey.
they named it "fish", and fish lived a long time, 137 years old in fish years, which is no small feat considering that's a prime number.
except fish died last week to the sorrow of tens but the unsurprise of hundreds, after all it lived in a quart of water like forever.
and sensitivities ran high as keaton and i asked if fish was sushi grade.
we didn't mean much more than the obvious, but it was freshly dead, and heck, we had a costco load of wasabi and lite soy sauce that was going bad.