Eat. More. Fish. Easy for me to say, right? I live on Martha’s Vineyard, an island, surrounded by the Atlantic Ocean. Fish we have. (McDonald’s and Wal-Marts, thankfully we do not.) Here on the Rock — the affectionate name we give our 90-square-mile of glacial moraine — most year-rounders own a fishing pole or a clam rake, or are comfortable using their own two hands to pluck glistening mussels from their rocky, seaweedy palaces at mid-tide.
And you can pretty much bet that when the Obamas arrive next week, they’ll be feasting on local fish or shellfish — whether it’s a lobster roll from Menemsha Fish Market or a plate of briny Sweet Neck oysters from Katama Bay — because that’s what summer folks on Martha’s Vineyard do. Likely they’ll fork into a freshly caught fillet of bluefish or striped bass, too.
But they won’t be eating flounder. Because Wednesday I ate the last legal one caught in Vineyard waters.