A Suicide By Salmon

This is a BBQ; this is a suicide note.

Forgive me for my sins, of which there are many. Today I eat a suspect slice of salmon. Due to a gross act of misconduct on the account of parties that I admonish but deliberately neglect to name, I do believe this salmon spent time out on the counter and in an intermittently powered and frequently opened refrigerator; there is no beer left; there is Tequila Rose. I cannot go on.

1 shot Slow Gin, to wash the bullet down.
1 piece Salmon, skin on; a generous portion.
2 slices Red Onion, coarsely diced.
1 handful Fresh Herbs, picked from your garden and chopped finely. I used sage, parsley, thyme, and sweet basil.
Several glugs Olive Oil.
1 clove Garlic, finely chopped.
1 tsp Chili Powder.
1/2 a Lemon,
Coarse Salt

Combine all ingredients other than the gin and salmon in a measuring cup: mix thoroughly and set aside to steep. With one hand squeeze the remaining juice out of your lemon over the salmon while, with the other hand, take the shot of gin. Let the salmon sit in lemon juice out in the sun whilst your marinade steeps. This is a good time to write your suicide note.

When you’ve got the wording down and have figured out to whom your worldly belongings shall go, pour the marinade over the salmon and let stand, yet again, in the sun. Place the salmon on a hot grill, skin-side down, and let the flames from the dripping oil lick the Salmon for a few minutes. Once the skin is adequately charred, turn the heat down and the burner directly under the salmon off. Close the lid and occupy yourself for a good half hour to forty-five minutes. This is a good time to proofread your note and make any suitable amendments. Don’t forget to delete your porn collection and destroy any incriminating evidence that you don’t want to be remembered by; go back and delete all typos and spelling mistakes, grammatical errs, and crooked syntax.

Once you’ve woefully clicked the ‘delete’ button for the last time and said your tearful goodbyes to the Debbys and the Jennas, remove the salmon from the BBQ. Take note: you remember that motion — lifting the BBQ lid — in the very sinews of your arms. This is to be the last time that you twist those magical knobs from low to high to off, click; the last time you feel the heat lift a warm hand to your cheek; the last time you’ll shed a salty tear, smoked.

Eat the salmon. Reflect. Don’t forget to turn off the gas.


Post Scriptum; Post Tenebras:

I trust that my friends will play the appropriate music at my memorial. Cremate me: spread my ashes with my mother’s and sneak a pinch into Poet’s Corner at Westminster Abbey; a pinch in L’église Sainte-Marie-Madeleine to a tall burning votive on the East wall.

I leave my Legos to the soon-to-be-born; my computer to whomever feels they lay claim. I leave my treasured box of recipes to the family: honor our mother; write a recipe book. I leave my bikes to Simon, my camera to Squid, and all other worldly belongings, other than my books, I leave to whomever it should please to have them.

Burn my books with me.