"Nah." She tugs gently back on the line, blinking out across the water toward her bobber. The surface of the lake is dazzling from the rising sun, light glinting up and flashing across the hull of the boat and into her eyes. "It's sort of relaxing I guess."
But then a beat and: "But give it a while and I might get hungry enough to turn on you."
She wins a chuckle with that one. "Okay," he breathes out on the tail end of it, flicks the end of his rod to adjust where the line's resting. "Okay, ten more minutes and we'll close up."
He's got a can of corn in the base of his pack that he snatched up a week or so ago. Suppose it'll do if they can't pull anything else in. Damn if he wasn't hoping for another catch, though.
That gets a low growling "Uuugh," from her, but it's mostly just pulling his leg. Or the sound of her stomach maybe. Either way, Ellie spends the next ten minutes idly tugging her line and watching the bobber shift across the surface of the lake, gently propelled by the occasional flick of wind or underwater eddy.
And she may not have a watch, but neither does he (not one that's worth anything anyway) and between the two of them she thinks she's got a pretty good handle on how much time has passed. So eventually she starts reeling in her line. The hook and bobber come flicking out of the water and she struggles a few moments to catch the line as it sways gently back and forth. Once wrangled, she stuffs the fishing pole down in the bottom of the boat - pats the tackle box reassuringly. "Alright little buddy, time to meet your maker."
You know, if it hasn't already. Jeez they could've thrown some water in there at least or something.
And Joel's reluctantly reeling in his line as he says it, packing up and picking up the oar without bothering to add anything else. Quiet as he rows back, clambers out to hold it steady."C'mon. Get a fire started and I'll show you how to clean it."
Once they reach shore, she's confident enough: slides over the side into the ankle deep water and sloshes her way up the gravely shore. "Sure thing," she says, trotting off to a nearby stand of trees. She's quick about collecting a few likely looking branches, stuffing her pockets with leaves before returning to the shoreline. She carves a small circle out of the gravel and, with the air of someone who's done the same thing a hundred times, builds a small fire in the little dent in the ground.
The result is a passable fire, likely just enough to cook over. Just the smell of burning leaves and wood makes her stomach growl - Pavlovian response or whatever.
There's no cleaning station; the house is a rotted mess and nothing outside looks any better save for the inside of the boat. Joel grabs the inner edge and uses leverage to haul it up over the rocky shoreline while Ellie sets everything up. By the time she's done, he's dunked the deceased fish in the water to wet its scales and laid it out over the second benchtop.
"That's good enough, Ellie. Do me a favor and bring the knife with you."
She dusts her hands off on the front of her jeans as she rises. Pulling her knife out in an easy, practiced motion, she ambles over to him and passes it over before perching herself near his elbow to watch. She can imagine what's coming - cleaning fish can't be that different from sorting out the useful parts of a rabbit or bird or whatever -, but she's still curious.
"Scales first." The knife's turned over, angled on its side as he flicks it up under the edge of the scales. It's been a while, so at first it slips along the slick surface before eventually jamming up and popping off a mess of translucent, confetti-like flakes. After a moment-- when 1/3 of the fish's topside's been done-- Joel slides the blade down into his palm and holds it out towards her.
"Man that's sick." Kind of cool, but morbid as hell. She's not shy about taking the knife when he offers it though, not hesitant about jamming the edge of the blade in under the layer of scales. She's clumsy at it - it isn't like skinning an animal - and digs a little bit into the bulk of the fish at first before she eases up on the angle of knife and adjusts her grip. It takes what feels like a longass time, but eventually she does work off most of the scales. Her hands feels slimy and tacky from it.
Not bad. Joel nods in approval, scoots in and gently lifts the knife away from her grip, setting his palm flat over the side of the fish.
"The rest is about what you got in there already." And to make that point, he slides the blade up the underside of its belly, pulling the loose, bright purple insides out with his fingers and scooting them off to the side. Usual routine.
Head's cut off, fillets sorted and trimmed, scraps saved with the rest while he tries to figure out how in the hell he's going to pull out the pin bones. It's an obvious, pensive, finger-drumming pause.
It's amazing how quickly an animal can turn into meat. Which is a simple, stupid kind of thing to think about - because of course, right? - but still comes to mind once Joel has it trimmed down into fillets. The thin square cuts are so totally abstract from the flopping fish at the bottom of the rusty tackle box that she'd been feeling sorry for earlier.
"So we eat it now, right? C'mon, you're killing me here."
"I need tweezers." Joel says, indirect and absent like she hasn't spoken a word. There could be a pair inside; they haven't scavenged the entire plot just yet, given that it was late when they crept in, scanned the perimeter, set up camp and nodded off.
"What? What for? Can't you just use your fingernails or something?" She puts her thumb and forefinger together, eyebrows raised. "Seriously, how'd people do this shit before tweezers were a thing? Pretty sure they've been eating fish for longer than that."
Joel purses his lips. Shrugs. Hell if he knows. Fingers like his couldn't tug out pinbones this tiny if there was a shotgun pressed to his forehead. Ellie on the other hand-- yeah, she might have a chance.
"You wanna give it a shot, be my guest. Should be lining the edge of the filet - see if you can't dig in there with your hands, otherwise we'll be choking on 'em later."
"Alright, alright. Get out of the way." She pushes up her sleeves, wipes her hands off on her jeans (not like they're terribly clean, but whatever) and then sets her hands along the weird, slippery texture of the fish filet in search of the bones. "Ow," she grumbles as the tip of one pokes her fingers, though after some haranguing and generally butchering the surface of the meat, she manages to pick the bone out.
It's slow going and she can't guarantee that she gets them all, but eventually she sets back on her heels and shakes the juice off her hands. "I think that's as good as it gets."
Joel doesn't mind watching her, settled there against the side of the boat. She's quiet while she works, and it feels like-- after years and years of scraping by doing rough work worth dirty hands-- peaceful moments like this are the hardest finds.
"Good work." He says offhandedly, scooping the meat up and heading over to the fire. It takes a while to heat the pan, coat it with a good bit of fat and sets to cooking the cut slices of meat. They break up a bit in the process, some of the flakes coming undone and fraying the edges of what he neatly butchered, but it's not like he's a world class chef. Honestly, it's better than anything canned, anyway.
Which is what reminds him to pop the tin of corn open. Both cuts are scooped out of the pan before he heats up the can's contents, portions it out, and sets them aside for the rest of the meal.
"Alright, come and get it, kiddo."
Ellie's catch was small. She gets both fillets served alongside a good amount of the corn, which is more than enough to make a solid meal for a girl her age. Joel takes the head, skips cooking up the organs not out of pickiness, but from the fact that he's not sure about how clean the lake is. Corn and silver-dollar sized slices of fish cheeks are enough. He'll make up for it with what he catches from a little land hunting later.
At this point she's long past arguing with him about their food portions, so she accepts the plate with only an arch look in the direction of his own. "Suit yourself, this smells friggin' great," she says and starts picking at the meat with her fingers. It's hot and she makes low little noises as she pulls it apart and lets the steam rise. She blows on it once or twice to cool it before taking a few bites.
Honestly it smells better than it tastes, but it's not bad. Flaky and weird and a little mushy, but whatever. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, right?
He can taste it, too. Bland. Not like the bass he and Tommy used to make trips out to catch. Oh well. It ain't twenty years old, that makes it better than nothing.
"It's better with butter. Lemon." Other stuff. He got it packaged from the supermarket, hell if he knew what herbs or spices they put in the box to shake out. "When we get this done I'll take you out for some real fishing. Have someone cook it up that knows how."
"Sure. I'd like that." Maybe with the right equipment and a little more luck, she'll get more of the appeal. Butter, lemon - she knows the words if not the taste and if she thinks hard enough about it she's pretty sure she can imagine something that tastes...better. Or something.
But hey the corn's okay: nice and familiar in all the right ways. People knock canned food all the damn time, but nothing tastes quite like a nice vintage of pre-infection preservatives right?
It's an odd balance, living off the land (and everything bitter, slimy, rotten or just plain weird in it) and scavenged old, familiar packaged meals like canned corn, baked beans. Bacon. His palette never quite knows where to settle.
"Alright, kiddo, time for a vote." It's well past two now, sitting in the shadow of that two story house to stay away from the brighter rays of the midday sun. If they set out now it'll be dark before they hit the end of this road. "Camp out here again or move on?"
Ellie doesn't usually get to pick; Joel, unsurprisingly feels he knows best. Today, though, he figured she's been a good enough sport.
She cleans her plate with her fingers, licking what's left of the taste from them-- and pauses when he asks. Her opinion as far as the direction and momentum of their trip tends to be second fiddle at best; the fact that he'd want it is enough to make her set back on her heels a bit and glance around as if scanning the immediate area might provide her with some kind of obvious, telling right answer.
"Move on, I guess. No use just sitting around here, right?" Besides, what would she even do with the rest of the day? There's a couple of books in the house, but not enough time to finish any of them she doesn't think. And she can't imagine if they stayed it would exactly be a day of leisure anyway.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
But then a beat and: "But give it a while and I might get hungry enough to turn on you."
no subject
He's got a can of corn in the base of his pack that he snatched up a week or so ago. Suppose it'll do if they can't pull anything else in. Damn if he wasn't hoping for another catch, though.
no subject
And she may not have a watch, but neither does he (not one that's worth anything anyway) and between the two of them she thinks she's got a pretty good handle on how much time has passed. So eventually she starts reeling in her line. The hook and bobber come flicking out of the water and she struggles a few moments to catch the line as it sways gently back and forth. Once wrangled, she stuffs the fishing pole down in the bottom of the boat - pats the tackle box reassuringly. "Alright little buddy, time to meet your maker."
You know, if it hasn't already. Jeez they could've thrown some water in there at least or something.
no subject
And Joel's reluctantly reeling in his line as he says it, packing up and picking up the oar without bothering to add anything else. Quiet as he rows back, clambers out to hold it steady."C'mon. Get a fire started and I'll show you how to clean it."
no subject
The result is a passable fire, likely just enough to cook over. Just the smell of burning leaves and wood makes her stomach growl - Pavlovian response or whatever.
no subject
There's no cleaning station; the house is a rotted mess and nothing outside looks any better save for the inside of the boat. Joel grabs the inner edge and uses leverage to haul it up over the rocky shoreline while Ellie sets everything up. By the time she's done, he's dunked the deceased fish in the water to wet its scales and laid it out over the second benchtop.
"That's good enough, Ellie. Do me a favor and bring the knife with you."
no subject
no subject
"Your turn, kiddo."
no subject
"Alright. Gross. Now what?"
no subject
"The rest is about what you got in there already." And to make that point, he slides the blade up the underside of its belly, pulling the loose, bright purple insides out with his fingers and scooting them off to the side. Usual routine.
Head's cut off, fillets sorted and trimmed, scraps saved with the rest while he tries to figure out how in the hell he's going to pull out the pin bones. It's an obvious, pensive, finger-drumming pause.
no subject
"So we eat it now, right? C'mon, you're killing me here."
no subject
Should've thought of this shit sooner.
no subject
no subject
"You wanna give it a shot, be my guest. Should be lining the edge of the filet - see if you can't dig in there with your hands, otherwise we'll be choking on 'em later."
no subject
It's slow going and she can't guarantee that she gets them all, but eventually she sets back on her heels and shakes the juice off her hands. "I think that's as good as it gets."
no subject
"Good work." He says offhandedly, scooping the meat up and heading over to the fire. It takes a while to heat the pan, coat it with a good bit of fat and sets to cooking the cut slices of meat. They break up a bit in the process, some of the flakes coming undone and fraying the edges of what he neatly butchered, but it's not like he's a world class chef. Honestly, it's better than anything canned, anyway.
Which is what reminds him to pop the tin of corn open. Both cuts are scooped out of the pan before he heats up the can's contents, portions it out, and sets them aside for the rest of the meal.
"Alright, come and get it, kiddo."
Ellie's catch was small. She gets both fillets served alongside a good amount of the corn, which is more than enough to make a solid meal for a girl her age. Joel takes the head, skips cooking up the organs not out of pickiness, but from the fact that he's not sure about how clean the lake is. Corn and silver-dollar sized slices of fish cheeks are enough. He'll make up for it with what he catches from a little land hunting later.
no subject
Honestly it smells better than it tastes, but it's not bad. Flaky and weird and a little mushy, but whatever. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, right?
no subject
"It's better with butter. Lemon." Other stuff. He got it packaged from the supermarket, hell if he knew what herbs or spices they put in the box to shake out. "When we get this done I'll take you out for some real fishing. Have someone cook it up that knows how."
no subject
But hey the corn's okay: nice and familiar in all the right ways. People knock canned food all the damn time, but nothing tastes quite like a nice vintage of pre-infection preservatives right?
no subject
"Alright, kiddo, time for a vote." It's well past two now, sitting in the shadow of that two story house to stay away from the brighter rays of the midday sun. If they set out now it'll be dark before they hit the end of this road. "Camp out here again or move on?"
Ellie doesn't usually get to pick; Joel, unsurprisingly feels he knows best. Today, though, he figured she's been a good enough sport.
no subject
"Move on, I guess. No use just sitting around here, right?" Besides, what would she even do with the rest of the day? There's a couple of books in the house, but not enough time to finish any of them she doesn't think. And she can't imagine if they stayed it would exactly be a day of leisure anyway.