herring

I was walking down the hall with Mandy, who spent three years working as a teacher in a remote Alaskan village called Akiachak.  We passed the snack table, which was covered with sundry food items which people had brought to share on the last day.
“Did you see the entire jar of herring in wine sauce that someone donated?” I asked her.
“No.”  She was quiet for a minute.  “Speaking of herring– once someone brought me a jar of herring eggs covered in seal oil and salt, and I asked him, ‘Where did you get these herring eggs?’ Because we didn’t have herring around there.  And he told me,  ‘Oh, you know, my cousin put them in a trash bag and dragged them behind his boat.  They stayed cold.'”  She glanced at me with raised eyebrows and a smirk.  “That’s like 600 miles.”  She snickered.  “I had some.”
“Where were you?” I asked.
“Middle of nowhere,”  she answered, and disappeared through a door.
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