A confession: I’m not a great cooker of fish.  In fact, Donna hates it when I cook fish, because I usually want to put some kind of fancy sauce on it.  She wants it sauteed with plain lemon, a little butter maybe.  (Yawn.) But she’s usually right—I don’t cook it enough to get good at it.  But another part of the reason I’m fish challenged is that I grew up in Cleveland in the 1970s where fish came into the grocery store on Monday (trucked in, no doubt) and sat around through Saturday, which was the only time in Cleveland you could get a good sense of what low tide smells like.  The only fish I ate, and ate grudgingly, was breaded, fried, frozen, and reheated in a toaster oven, and I was able to Read On »