Swordfish Chili

 Hello All:

The Atlantic swordfish (Xiphias gladius) possesses a specialized heat-exchange organ right next to its eyes and brain. This biological heater warms its cranial cavity up to 10 to 15 degrees Celsius above the surrounding water temperature. This extraordinary adaptation grants them superior visual acuity when hunting in the pitch-black, freezing depths of the ocean.
However, when an invasive species of swordfish manages to adapt to freshwater retention ponds, their warm-blooded optical prowess turns toward entirely different prey—and their meat takes on properties that confound even the most seasoned suburban culinary enthusiasts.

Swordfish Chili

 

Lance adjusted the strap of his high-impact Kevlar vest and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. The morning sun beat down on Ridgeview Community Park, reflecting off the murky green surface of the retention pond. A couple of toddlers played on the swings fifty yards away, entirely blissfully unaware of the 1,200-pound apex predator lurking beneath the duckweed.
"Are you sure about the bait, Lance?" asked Gary, holding a five-pound, half-thawed mackerel with a pair of heavy-duty industrial pliers. "The town council only authorized us to use breadcrumbs for the bluegills."
"The town council doesn't understand the stocking quotas, Gary," Lance muttered, checking the winch mounted to the rear frame of his aluminum rowboat. "I filed the paperwork with the Recreation Department three weeks ago. They signed off on the freshwater swordfish trial to handle the Canada goose population. Now hand me the mackerel."
It was a absurdity known only to the residents of Sector 4. The local drainage pond, constructed primarily to catch overflow from the nearby cul-de-sac during torrential downpours, was now home to four mature Xiphias gladius. Nobody knew how they survived the runoff, but survive they did, growing at an exponential, terrifying rate.
Lance impaled the mackerel onto a titanium shark hook attached to a three-hundred-pound test steel leader. He cast the heavy line into the center of the pond—a mere eighty feet wide—and sat back on the rowboat’s bench.
For forty-five minutes, the park was silent save for the hum of distant lawnmowers. Then, the water exploded.
The drag on the heavy-duty reel screamed like a jet engine. The small aluminum boat lurched forward violently, carving a deep wake through the duckweed as the fish tore across the hundred-foot pond at nearly forty miles per hour.
"Hold on!" Lance bellowed, bracing his feet against the gunwales.
Out of the center of the pond, a colossal silver missile erupted into the air. A thirteen-foot swordfish, glistening with municipal runoff and pure, unadulterated rage, thrashed against the suburban skyline. Its primary weapon—a five-foot long, bony rostrum—glistened in the sunlight.
"It's charging!" Gary screamed, dropping his pliers and ducking behind a fiberglass cooler.
The fish struck the side of the rowboat with the force of a pneumatic ram. The sword punctured the starboard aluminum hull like a butter knife through tin, pinning Lance’s tackle box directly to the deck. Water began to spurt into the craft.
"Gaff it! Get the winch!" Lance shouted, pumping the rod with everything he had.
It took two hours, three broken oars, and the collective muscle of Gary, Lance, and a bewildered local mail carrier who happened to be walking by, to finally hoist the beast onto the grass. The swordfish thrashing came to a halt on the manicured lawn right next to the park bench, its tail still lazily whipping at a dandelion. A crowd of neighborhood children gathered at a safe distance, pointing in sheer disbelief at the ocean-going leviathan resting beside the playground equipment.
"Well," Gary panted, staring down at the massive pile of silver flesh. "We caught it. Now what?"
"Now," Lance said, rubbing his aching arms, "we butcher it."
By 4:00 PM, Lance’s deep freezer was overflowing. His refrigerator was full. His neighbors, having already received forty pounds of thick, meaty swordfish steaks each, had politely closed their blinds and turned off their porch lights. Swordfish, while remarkably steak-like, rich, and lacking any fishy odor when prepared with a nice garlic white wine reduction, loses its charm when you have six hundred pounds of it sitting on your patio table.
Lance stood in his kitchen, surrounded by vacuum-sealed bags of dense, pale meat.
"I can't throw it out," he whispered to himself. "It's too good."
He pulled out his giant thirty-quart stainless steel stockpot. He dumped in twenty pounds of cubed swordfish. Then came the dark, surreal inspiration that only comes to a man driven mad by excess protein.
He added six cans of kidney beans. Four crushed tomatoes. Diced jalapeños, chili powder, cumin, smoked paprika, and a touch of cayenne.
As the concoction simmered, the kitchen began to smell not of the sea, nor of a delicate fish bistro, but of a heavy, dark Texas chili parlor. The fish meat didn't flake; it absorbed the spices, breaking down into hearty, savory chunks that held their ground against the heat of the peppers.
Lance took a wooden spoon, dipped it into the thick red bubbling brew, and took a bite. It was smoky, rich, dense, and entirely impossible to categorize.
He smiled, looking out the kitchen window toward the quiet waters of Ridgeview Park Pond. Tomorrow, he thought, he'd go back out with the heavy rod. The town council was going to love the annual chili cook-off.