Dear Sushi,
I have addressed this letter to you in the hopes of resolving our longstanding feud and accepting each other’s differences. I think I may be the only person out there who just doesn’t like you, plain and simple.
I am muscles and bones and tendons and organs and veins wrapped neatly in a pretty package of skin and hair. I’m not edible except to certain unnamed psychopaths.
You are raw or cooked tuna and salmon and crab and shrimp and eel all wrapped neatly in a pretty package of seaweed and rice and sometimes soy sauce. People like to eat you.
I’ve tried to like to eat you ... I really have. Every single time I’ve put you in my mouth I’ve thought “This may be the time that I like to eat sushi!” But the same thing happens every time. My tastebuds feel like they are being attacked and my body prepares for war. My throat constricts and my stomach turns and my brain tells me that I need to hurl you from my mouth with great immediacy ... which I do, being careful not to spew you directly at the plate or face of my fellow diners.
Friends have all boasted and bragged about their favourite sushi bar, and have assured me that I just haven’t had the right kind of sushi yet, and that they would introduce me to the sushi that I will fall madly in love with ... and want to consume in a ravenous frenzy.
The plate sits in front of me, and there you are ... looking up at me with anticipation and just a hint of mockery while you sit so smugly in your seaweed and rice bits. I want to enjoy you, but I loathe you. I really, really loathe you.
I have tried to eat you at some of the world’s best sushi establishments and I still loathe you.
I have tried to eat you while dressed in my fanciest attire and I still loathe you.
I have tried to eat you while imagining you are really a delicious non-fish salad and I still loathe you.
I have tried to eat you without prejudice and judgment and I still loathe you.
I cannot try to eat you anymore. I’m finished with you, Sushi. I hope you can understand my point of view and accept my decision. I am turning my back on you never to think upon you again.
Sincerely,
Rachel Rose
p.s. You stink.
