Well okay, it’s not sole in the freezer, it’s kippered herring. We don’t always see kippers in the freezer section at the grocery store, but there they were two weeks ago, so one of them came home with us.
I was in Whitby once, the one in northern England.
There’s a hostel right there beside the old abbey. I could look out the window from my upper bunk and see the ruined walls in the moonlight.
By day, Whitby felt to me a lot like Port Dover here in Ontario: a small seaside resort catering mainly to people living in the region. Most of the town is at the bottom of the cliff — shops and houses and the pier and the beach — with mostly the guest houses and ruins at the top of the cliff.
But on a little road still commanding a high view, and not very far at all from the hostel, is a little building, with a little chimney, out of which pours the most delicious odour of smoke and salt and fish. It’s a kipper smokery. I walked by it on the wrong day to buy, but I hadn’t known it was there, and was grateful to have experienced it.
The next morning, the hostel had choices for breakfast. One was kippers from the little building down the road. Guess what I chose?
Tonight I’m making chicken soup for supper. It will be tasty and nourishing and all those good things.
E.g. doesn’t care for kippers. Maybe I’ll have them for breakfast tomorrow, after she leaves for work.