Smoked Mackerel on Toast

The kitchen smells of smoke and salt. A packet of mackerel, torn open on the counter. The toaster ticking. This is not a recipe. It's barely even cooking. But it is, on the right evening, exactly the right thing to eat.

I come back to smoked mackerel the way I come back to old notebooks. It's always there, always reliable, always better than I expect it to be. The fish is rich and oily and deeply savoury, the kind of flavour that fills a room the moment you break the fillet open. A squeeze of lemon cuts through it. Black pepper sharpens it. Good toast holds it all together. Five minutes, and you've fed yourself something that actually tastes like something.

This is Tuesday food. Late home, nothing planned, the fridge half empty but a packet of mackerel still in there from the weekend shop. You don't need a recipe for this. You need a good piece of fish, a thick slice of bread, and the sense to leave it alone. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract. This one barely needs a sentence.

I wrote it down in the notebook once: mackerel, toast, lemon, standing up. That was enough.