I was about 11 years old when I caught and ate my first whole fish. I was on a camping trip with two older (and at the time, I thought wiser) cousins. We went fishing in an old muddy pond filled with catfish, bass and bluegill. I baited my own hook and reeled in a pesky little panfish, just as my boy cousin cleverly whacked it on the head with a rock to prep it for snacktime. So, just like we’d seen in the movies, we impaled it on a small tree branch and proceeded to roast the life out of it. It took forever to cook, and when I finally took a bite of the poor thing, it tasted like the inside of a port-o-potty smells.