The Day the Salmon Achieved Flight

People always ask what married life is really like. I usually say: it’s 20% romance, 30% teamwork, and 50% trying not to laugh when your spouse walks into a glass door.

Case in point: last Saturday.

My husband volunteered to cook dinner — very sweet, very rare. He was attempting “pan-seared salmon,” which I supported, mostly by staying out of the kitchen and eating crisps on the sofa.

At one point, I wandered in to refill my water glass. He was standing there in his socks, brandishing a fish slice like a lightsaber, humming the Mission: Impossible theme. The pan was smoking. The extractor fan was not on. The smoke alarm was having an existential crisis.

I said, “Darling, are you aware the salmon is now charcoal?”

He looked down, poked it, and said, very calmly: “No, this is Cajun-style. I’m innovating.”

Then he tried to flip the fish. It stuck. He shook the pan harder. Suddenly, a blackened salmon fillet launched across the kitchen like a missile and landed — I am not making this up — directly into my glass of water.

We both froze. The fish floated. It looked like a tiny, defeated submarine.

After a long silence, he whispered: “Right. Takeaway?”

Now, every time we pass a fish counter at the supermarket, I stage-whisper, “Careful, darling. It might fight back.”

TL;DR: Marriage is just agreeing that yes, the salmon did fly into your drink, and no, we’re never speaking of it again — except to guests, obviously.

(P.S. I may or may not have logged a version of this under the “marriage” section of my private funny stories collection. For “educational purposes.”)

Bonus fact: The smoke alarm has since been renamed “Gary.” Gary is very judgmental.