My dad and I made the requisite appearance at Lung Center’s food market this Sunday morning. Normally it’s my mom, my sister, and I who go there to buy fresh produce such as eggs, vegetables, fruit, and the odd loaf of Uncle George’s sugar-free high-fiber bread.

Today we just bought the bread, some taho, longganisa, and grilled catfish. My dad likes going to the wet part of the market where they have fresh cuts of meat and live fish. His favorite part are the field frogs still jumping in a large mesh bag, waiting for the exotic food connoisseur to come along and… I don’t even want to think about that. My dad took me past that mesh bag two times! The frogs jumped, I jumped, the frogs jumped, I jumped.

We bought the grilled catfish last. As we were paying for it, I noticed a tub of live catfish at my feet. One of the fish was discreetly trying to make its escape and wriggled up and out of the tub. It landed splat on the outdoor cement floor of the market. I let out a little “Oh!” but the fish vendor didn’t notice.

The catfish wriggled onwards. Bystanders started murmuring. “Uy! Namamasyal! (It’s taking a stroll!)” said one of them. The fish had gotten three or four feet away before the vendor caught it and sent it back to the tub along with the other catfish.

It’s probably now waiting for some food connoisseur to come along and… Ü

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Pat Morita died last week of natural causes. Mr. Miyagi, we shall miss you. Wax on, wax off in peace. (Link via Brownpau.)