“Six Hundred Ways to Cook a Zander”

I would never take Madame Fischer as my wife. The reason is simple, and it has nothing to do with her surname. She cannot fry fish. And I can sense such things instinctively — a cat’s intuition is rarely mistaken. For my kind, the ability to fry fish properly is not a domestic skill; it is a moral category, a cornerstone of choosing a life partner. An evening or two together — fine. But entrusting her with the daily menu? Never.

To fry fish well is to practice an art as ancient as fire itself. I know more than one marriage that collapsed over this seemingly trivial matter. Why? Because someone’s mother failed to teach her daughter the sacred choreography of the frying pan — the timing, the heat, the patience, the reverence. Meanwhile, nothing in this world surpasses the taste of well‑fried fish: the crisp golden crust, the tender white flesh steaming inside, the aroma that curls through the kitchen like a promise. The way to a cat’s heart is paved not with diamonds, but with sizzling fillets.

Take the humble river zander — the ordinary fellow lurking beneath every submerged log. I personally know six hundred ways to prepare him. Fried zander. Zander with onions. Zander stewed in sour cream, thick as morning fog. Zander baked with vegetables until they melted into a fragrant mosaic. Zander under breadcrumbs, crackling like autumn leaves. Zander is exhausted in the oven. Zander à la Greek, shimmering with olive oil and herbs. Zander in foil. Zander à la royal…

But I digress.

You have surely heard of the art of doing nothing. No? Then allow me to explain. In theory, I, too, would like to master this discipline — the one that found its cozy refuge in the Netherlands, the happiest country on the globe. Why happiest? Because of Niksen, the philosophy of purposeful idleness. One does things, yes, but without haste, without strain, without the feverish urgency that plagues the rest of the world. Happiness there is like a slow‑cooked stew: gentle heat, minimal interference, maximum flavour.

The Dutch are born with this secret stitched into their DNA. They do not clutter their homes with unnecessary purchases, do not torment themselves with renovations, and do not change their tires or coats with the seasons (though they do wash and cut their hair from time to time). Most importantly, they do not restrict themselves to food or drink. Their only commandment is simple: do less. Fuss less. Live lightly. Let life simmer on its own.

Children are raised in this spirit as well — and they grow into serene adults who stroll through South America, sit in bars with a beer, discuss life without shouting, and rarely argue with their parents. Exemplary people. Exemplary country. If only I could live there! But I cannot. My business in Tierra del Fuego demands my presence, and the authorities in St. Petersburg insist I solve a crime with indecent haste.

Farewell, Netherlands — a land I shall never see. And Tierra del Fuego is also uncertain. How is my Miriam — “mine” only in a poetic sense, though she is a Mossad girl — whom I left to watch over the hotel? I will not see that fat, speckled, eight‑kilogram trout anytime soon. A pity. Fishing calmed me.

I love standing by the river, watching the current, the rapids, the quiet eddies. Listening to the water’s murmur. Feeling the wind on my face. The smell of river water — mineral, cold, alive — incomparable. Perhaps I absorbed this love in childhood, living on the banks of the Neva. When I fish, the catch does not matter. The process does. The contemplation. In this, I agree entirely with Confucius. I do not love fish — I love fishing. The kitchen comes later.

Fish, like people, come in all kinds: foolish, clever, inedible, dangerous. Only an experienced fisherman — and detective — can tell the difference. You cannot teach this; it must be in your blood. Placed there by whom? Parents? The heavens? Perhaps both — and the choices we make along the way. Life is a sequence of choices: of actions, reactions, routes, companions, responsibilities. Recipes, too, are choices — and consequences.

Cruel? Of course. Life is serious, capricious, treacherous, and short. One must stay alert. Rest only in sleep.

Have you noticed that the older one becomes, the less one wishes to live? Life‑fatigue — is it normal? If you say no, then you are still young, and life tastes like honey. But that sweetness fades. It always does.

We are guests here. Strangers. Drifters travelling from one cosmos to another, from one incarnation to the next. Figaro here, Figaro there. Death is also life, simply elsewhere. Where? No one knows. It would be comforting to know the address in advance.

Matter does not disappear — it changes form. Someone designed it so. Someone unknown. A black magical square. We know so little about the world, and even less about ourselves.

Imagine choosing your own fate! Knowing in advance what awaits you. Nonsense. The idea that a person is the master of their destiny is a myth. Even those who pull our strings from the depths of the cosmos likely do not understand the consequences of their actions. And it is equally foolish to think we are left entirely to ourselves — except, perhaps, presidents, oligarchs, kings, sheikhs, and James Bond.

So what remains? Chaos. The mother of order. The universe is a jungle. Earth — a nest of solar flares. Why not?

“Let a hundred flowers bloom — let a hundred schools contend,” but the strongest prevails. The law of the jungle: if you are not the hunter, you are the prey. We live in a human anthill. A human jungle. And on the scale of the Milky Way? Black holes devour everything that passes. Meteorites vanish like crumbs. Comets disappear like careless thoughts. Red giants serve pale white dwarfs. Old asteroids court young nebulae. Space is choked with dust. Pulsars, blazers, galaxies — and debris of who‑knows‑what — drift like… well, you know what in an ice hole.

Everything exists — as in Greece. Or in Costco.

Terrifying.

And yet: there is no escape from this cosmic madhouse. Abandon hope, all who enter — and exit. So live while you can. Thank the heavens for each day. Bow, morning and evening. Perhaps they will notice. Though probably not. There are many of us, and only one of Him. You cannot expect Him to bless every sneeze.

And who are we? A community of molecules with limited liability. A heap of particles that somehow gathered together. A revelry of microscopic riffraff — quarks, mesons, hadrons, baryons, nucleons…

And this, you say, is life?