That afternoon, we smoked the bluefish, then we added to it all the things that Grandma Jean added to her crab or sweet pepper or hot shrimp dips: cream cheese, butter, lemon, garden-fresh herbs. And then I threw in some wasabi paste because cream cheese and butter might be Grandma Jean’s staples, but they aren’t mine and I’m always trying to cut them down at the knees with citrus or vinegar or brine. We puréed the mixture until it was creamy as mousse—not because it needed it, but because Grandma Jean did. And just like that, our bluefish dip went from nothing to famous. My husband caught more bluefish; I asked him to. We stored batches in the freezer and friends started requesting it. We brought it to Grandma Jean, who was a kind of happy I hadn’t seen in a long time. She even asked for a little red wine and we gave it to her because, well, the bluefish season doesn’t go on forever and you’re only ninety-seven once.