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I can legitimately remember the first time I had sushi. The year escapes me, but I was in college, so we’re talking mid-90s. I was horrified by the idea, but a girl I had a super crush on was going with a group of people we worked with at camp, and so you better believe I was going to stick some raw fish in my mouth.

It was good. I think. I don’t know. I was too busy dreaming of sex with the girl I just told you about. I was like 20. What do you expect. (Spoiler: Never had sex with her. Truly, and trust me on this, not a shock. Anyway …)

Anyway, I liked it well enough to go back, and pretty quickly I became a sushi lover. I mean, what’s not to love? The tender fish, the rice, the seaweed, the soy sauce. Some wasabi. A couple of Sapparos. It’s a wonderful delight.

But again, back then? It was … still weird.

How weird was it? So weird that in his 1994 song “Fruitcakes,” Jimmy Buffett sang the following:

I was out in California where I hear they have it all

They got riots, fires and mudslides, they’ve got sushi in the mall

Sushi at the mall! That’s how weird sushi still was. Only in California — you know, where the “Fruitcakes” live — can you get sushi at the mall.

Now, of course, you can get it at the mall. You can get it at one of the 14 sushi restaurants within a 10-mile drive of wherever you live. You can get it at baseball games, bar mitzvahs, and bordellos. And don’t forget — at the shittiest supermarkets.

Sushi, to use a ubiquitous term, is ubiquitous.

But it hasn’t made the leap into home kitchens. It’s not on the dinner rotation. Other ethnic dishes have made the jump — spaghetti and meatballs, anyone? French toast (which I’m assuming originated in France, but I’m not about to fall down that rabbit hole). Tacos? Stir-fry? You get the point.

But sushi?

Nope.

In fact, I’d wager that all across this great country, right now, there are probably the sum total of zero people making sushi in their kitchen. (Give or take 10 or so.) No husband is coming home from work today, asking what’s for dinner, and hearing “homemade sushi.” No kid is bounding through the front door from school, demanding to know what Mom’s cooking, only to be told “homemade sushi.”

(Related: I’ve been told men can also cook for their families. It’s not my experience. I once made my wife dinner. It didn’t end well. We both agree I’m best relegated to the clean-up crew, where I can do less damage.)

Speaking of my wife, and the whole point of this rambling meditation, know this: She made sushi the other night. Let me repeat that for emphasis: MY WIFE MADE SUSHI the other night.

For the record — and not that it matters — but she is not of Japanese descent. She is Irish/Polish, and I’m pretty sure that sushi was not featured prominently on either of those cultures’ historical menus.

But my wife? Hell of a cook. I’d go as far as to call her a chef. Like, legit. Like, incredible. Like, borderline supernatural. I’m a lucky bastard.

And she loves sushi as much as I do.

So she figured she’d try her hand at it. Went online, found a recipe for proper sushi rice. Drove to the fish market, picked up a half-pound of gorgeous tuna. Bought all the other accoutrement — nori, wasabi, pickled ginger, the works. Came home and worked her magic.

And before you ask, yes, it tasted as good as it looked. Better, even. I’d put it up against any sushi I’ve ever had in my entire life, and I’ve had some damn good sushi.

Game-changer. Game officially changed.

Seriously: We probably eat sushi … once every 10 days? Gets pricey fast. Forty, fifty bucks easy for two people at a decent place. Now? This feast you’re looking at cost about twelve dollars. Twelve. Dollars.

My wife just cracked the code on one of life’s great restaurant mysteries. Next week, she’s probably going to figure out how to make those little chocolate soufflés that cost eighteen bucks a pop.

I married well, people. I married very, very well.

That’s really the whole point of this story.