When I was about four years old my family and I lived close to another beach, not far from here. It was different to this one: sandier and more full of jellyfish.
My brothers and I would go paddling in the often-chilly water and feel small Flounders skittering under our feet: a slightly alarming sensation at first; at least until the fun of the chase took over. The idea was to trap the tiny, camouflaged flatfish under our feet and claim them from their sandy home.
The first time I tried it I asked my older brother why we were doing this. He told me we could eat them. So, thus enthused, I almost immediately managed to trap one. No easy feat (sic) either: my brothers were duly impressed. I claimed my prize, flapping, from beneath the sun-dappled waves and bit its crunchy head off. The body flapped on a little (not much) longer.
I wasn't much impressed with the flavour and couldn't understand what all the fuss was about. I was used to raw, crunchy food at that age. How was I to know we were supposed to cook the fish first?
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