Lu Lippold

You know how sometimes you take up a little hobby, like writing articles about food, for example, and then all of a sudden your day job gets really busy, and you take on another time-consuming freelance job on top of that, because you sure could use the money, but then you lapse into despair about how you’ve set yourself up for failure and decide you should run away and start all over in Bora B

I’ve noticed that many restaurants these days are emblazoning the word “sustainable” on their menus. It’s trendy, like “locally-sourced,” or “gluten-free,” or “chocolate-covered bacon,” so I decided to start saying it frequently. I hate to have a trendy word come and go before I even figure out how to use it in a sentence.

Wouldn’t it be great if there were still such a thing as a freshwater fish untainted by mercury? A fish that doesn’t carry any dire warnings for pregnant women and children? A fish that tastes as fresh as the fish you vaguely remember catching in your pristine childhood? Ladies and gentlemen, such a fish still exists, thanks to the decades-long efforts of an old hippie named Herby Radmann, in a place known as Bullfrog Farm, through an enterprise called Eat My Fish.