Expressway: Bluefish, zucchini of the sea

Here on Long Island, it is both enjoyable and rewarding to garden, and this has been a banner year for tomatoes, string beans, cucumbers and the ever-bountiful zucchini. Some longtime gardeners leave zucchini on strangers' doorsteps or hand them off to toll takers as a way to "share" their wealth. I know that if I plant them, these squash are mine to eat and enjoy, and so we have learned all manner of ways to prepare zucchini: pancakes, bread, muffins, and even carved out, sauteed and restuffed. I have sauteed, roasted and steamed them. But not everyone likes zucchini, so we've also stooped to bribing some neighbors: If you take our zucchini now, you can get our tomatoes later. Fortunately, none of the zucchini has gone to waste.

Which brings me to bluefish.

My husband, Rick, likes to fish on party boats in the Sound and the Atlantic whenever he gets the chance. For the sport of it, his fish of choice is bluefish, a much-maligned species for eating. Some say it tastes "oily."

I'm not much of a fish lover; bluefish tastes about the same as other fish to me. But when my husband catches bluefish, he doesn't want to have killed them in vain and so -- although I am not much of a cook -- I have learned how to prepare it.

Mainly I roast the big pieces. And I found an excellent recipe for something called bluefish balls (meatballs), and got my friend Ivy, a cook, to help me. Quite tasty.

Finding takers for bluefish is tricky. If you don't time it right, people already have their evening meal planned. My closest neighbor, Linda, swears bluefish (and zucchini) is disgusting. One of our best customers has passed away and another is moving. Rick tells friends that if they take the bluefish now, they get to take the striped bass later.

And so after a particularly successful fishing expedition last month out of Huntington Harbor, Rick came back with a bounty of 12 bluefish (and I already had bluefish balls in the freezer!).

He stood in the street on our block in Long Beach offering raw fillets to anyone who passed by. A gardener took him up on it and said he was going to fry the fish. That's a method I avoid. Besides not loving fish, the smell of frying is usually more than I can take.

Nevertheless, with so many fish, I went for broke. It was 10 in the morning on a Saturday. Assembly-line style, we cut every bone from the fish, lightly floured it, seasoned it with pepper, turned the exhaust fan on high and started frying.

First up were our neighbors Adrian and Ken. "Come in and taste this," Rick said.

Next thing I know, my house is the Fish Shack. I offered some, already cooked, to my neighbor Addy, my most reliable bluefish customer. The aforementioned Ivy arrived, followed by Linda, who grudgingly gave her approval.

I started calling others who might be starting to think about lunch. A couple of surfers who park bicycles in our garage stopped in. I brought some around to my friend Rose, who is the most accomplished cook of all. She liked it, too. I felt pretty good about that. But mainly I felt good for the reputation of bluefish.

Fry it -- you'll like it!