Scarlett was the picky eater in the family. She hated ranch dressing, beets and even milk. She wouldn’t go near a jar of pickles. I used to dream of the wide variety of recipes we would enjoy once she went off to college and, above all, fish. When she was away from home — at dance practice maybe — and would not be joining us for dinner, my mom would seize the opportunity to defrost the breaded Costco tilapia that had been lying dormant in our freezer.

Its cardboard container would be warped and the fish would be caked in icicles and snow: a token of its forbearance. Despite its tragic appearance, the fish, once placed in the oven, created an extraordinary scent that would alert my nose and prepare my taste buds for a magical meal. However, it was prepared — in tacos, over rice, or just by itself — I knew it would fulfill my fish-full desires. Each bite of that tilapia was a remarkable one.

Scarlett will not join us for dinner for a very long time now. Essentially, I can eat whatever I want. Our fridge is now packed with things she’d hate: mushrooms, olives, sour cream and a lot of pickles.

But for some reason, we never buy that breaded tilapia anymore.