For the longest time, “fish” meant the frozen fillets my mom baked with lemon. They were fine, I guess. Then a date took me to a little sushi place. I had my first bite of salmon nigiri, and suddenly “fish” meant something buttery, fresh, and almost sweet. The problem? Now every time I see those gray slabs of frozen tilapia at the store, I just shake my head. They look like relics from a different world. That relationship didn’t last. But my loyalty to sushi? Permanent.