I went out to dinner with my wife last night. We went to this Irish pub across town—nice place. I got the fish and chips. She got the battered shrimp and fries.
My fish was quite good and I believe my wife enjoyed her meal as well, but I have to say that I feel bad that the shrimp came from a world of violence. I’m not sure how you prepare battered shrimp, but I believe it would taste just as good without going through the whole beating that clearly leaves an emotional scar underneath the physical pounding.
My fish was gently placed into the basket above the deep fryer, slowly lowered into the warm bath of oils, gently placed upon the plate to relax, rest, and cuddle up to the over-privileged side of chips.
My wife’s shrimp lived a short painful existence. The abuse probably started as a youngster. Abused as a child, the other shrimp wouldn’t let them play any shrimp games. If only it would have learned to fly and pull a sled!
Its adult life bought a daily verbal assault. The cook would ridicule it in front of the pampered scampi. It never once was told just how beautiful it truly was. I simply wish that all battered shrimp across the entire ocean would recognize that there is a place they can go for help. Shrimp don’t have to live the battered life.
It was sad to see how the shrimp ended up. Where my fish were honored to be served up on the same plate with hearty potato wedges, her shrimp were cast aside and left to fend themselves in silence with the strung out normal fries.
Stop the battering of shrimp. There is a place to go for help.