Having grown up on a cattle ranch in the middle of Nevada, I am not the type of person who you would think is into eating sushi. You would think I am into eating beef. And you would be correct.
That having been said, I must point out that I am not into eating all parts of a cow, despite the best efforts of my family to convince me otherwise. For instance, I will not eat tongue, intestines, or GOD FORBID "Rocky Mountain Oysters." My family has tried to get me to eat these alleged delicacies on more than one occasion, and I have adamantly refused. Forgive me for believing this, but while I understand it is necessary on a cattle ranch for young bulls to be turned into steers, I do not feel it is necessary, or even appropriate, to celebrate the castration of this poor animal by chowing down on what has been cut off.
Anyway, back to sushi. I, being a fifth-generation Nevadan, should not technically be eating sushi. That's because Nevada is a desert, not known for its vast modern-day seas filled with fish. Nevada food, it seems, would be either grilled cactus or -- if the majority of the nation's Republicans get their way -- a nice, heaping plate of Yucca Mountain nuclear waste.
For the first 24 years of my life, I managed to avoid sushi, even while I lived in the fish-laden Bay area for four-plus years of my life. I just saw no need for the stuff. Yeah, they had sushi down there, in what was seemingly a more hospitable place for sushi. But they also had the food I was already used to and perfectly happy with.
What I am trying to say is that there are Burger Kings in the Bay area, too.
But my sushi-eating habits, or lack thereof, started to change about a year ago, when a dear friend of mine, Sheryl, practically dragged me to the Sushi Club, a Reno restaurant which serves some of the juiciest steaks you'll ever eat.
Just seeing if you were paying attention.
Anyway, Sheryl ordered for me, and before I knew it, I had some raw fish, wrapped in rice, topped with some orange-looking eggs, sitting in front of me. And they expected me to eat it.
I did. And I liked it.
Now, I don't like all sushi. Namely, I don't like the stuff that tastes like raw fish. I mostly prefer the cooked stuff. And let me say that I have tasted many different types of food, and consider myself a lover of fine dining. And there is nothing on this planet tastier than the Sushi Club's San Francisco Roll -- tempura-cooked shrimp with cream cheese wrapped in rice and glazed with a thin coating of a sweet, teriyaki-like sauce.
When I informed my family that I had been off my rocker enough to try sushi -- and that I even liked it -- different relatives reacted in different ways. My mom just shrugged, while my dad gave me a look like I'd just announced that I was flying to New York to become a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall. And one of my aunts -- I can't remember which one -- in true Boegle fashion, argued with me.
"Was this raw fish you ate?" she asked.
"Yes, some of it," I replied.
"Then that isn't sushi. Sushi is vinegar rice. Raw fish is actually called sashimi."
"Well, I ate it at the Sushi Club, where it was called sushi, on a planet where most everyone calls raw fish, when eaten with rice, sushi."
"Well, that's still wrong. It's not sushi. It's sashimi."
This dumb argument went on for a while, with my aunt trying to convince me that I was a moron because, technically, sushi had nothing to do with raw fish.
Technically, I told her she could blow it out her snout. Most people equate sushi with raw fish, meaning people know what I'm talking about when I say "sushi," meaning that language and words have worked for the purpose for which they are designed.
And, if you want to get technical, here is the definition of sushi according to the American Heritage Dictionary:
"Small cakes of cold cooked rice wrapped in seaweed, dressed with vinegar, and topped or wrapped with slices of RAW OR COOKED FISH, egg or vegetables." (emphasis added)
So there. I was eating sushi, technically and in reality.
Now, I am trying to get my parents to eat sushi with me sometime. They've agreed to try it.
But only if I try Rocky Mountain Oysters first ...
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan who things Mother Nature is taking this whole "HOT August Nights" thing a little too literally. His column (Jimmy's, not Mother Nature's) appears here Tuesdays, and an archive of past columns can be found at http://geocities.datacellar.net/jiboegle.