Gone Fishing

There is something so satisfying in the smell of fish sizzling on the griddle. It always meant a delicious home cooked meal from someone’s catch that day was about to be served. Once the fresh fish had been cleaned and cut, it was then dredged in the flour mixture. As soon as it was placed on the hot griddle, the fish would set off a loud hiss. That sound would always bring everyone closer to the kitchen from where the mouthwatering smell wafted.

Grandma Joyce frying the day's catch.

Growing up, fishing had been the boys’ thing. My two cousins, Adam and Jacob, Uncle Bruce, and Grandpa Larry would all head out in the morning in the truck towing the fishing boat behind them. In the afternoon, they would return from a day out on the lake with a cooler full of fish. Part of me always wanted to tag along, but I didn’t think I’d be any good at fishing. Even at that age, I knew that feeding your pioneer family in the Oregon Trail computer game was completely different from the real thing.

One day, my curiosity urged me to follow my uncle and the big cooler of fish around to the back of my grandparents’ house. My cousin, Mackenzie, and I watched as he cleaned and cut up each of the fish they had caught. I had come too close, though, and blood spurted down the front of my clothing; my new white shirt with Esmeralda on it from Disney’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame was eventually ruined as the blood and fish oil stained it. I was really bummed but had at least been able to satisfy my curiosity.

Years later, I finally learned how to fish and experienced the fulfillment of a meal produced from what I had caught.

It was a warm breezy morning the day we headed out to the lake for a simple fishing lesson. I helped hitch up the boat and drove in the truck with my Grandpa as my Grandma, Mom, and little brother, William, followed behind in their van. I remember that drive as one of the most picturesque drives I had ever been on in Minnesota. It sounds so cliché, but the sun was truly shining in the clear, light blue sky, illuminating the green fields and woods. I experimented with my first digital camera that I had received for Christmas, desperately trying to capture the perfect moments we passed on the country roads. Subtly rolling hills of green crops. The sun glinting off the tall, vibrant stalks. Dust swirling in the middle of the dirt road from the previous truck. Barns in all shades of well-worn red.

Grandpa Larry and I backed the boat into the water from the boat landing dock and met the others around the other side of the lake. We picked them up and sped off to a quiet spot where we might fish undisturbed.

Caught in the stinging mist from speeding across the water.

I had never seen fishing poles so short until my Grandpa pulled out several from the boat’s storage. But they got the job done. We used mealworms to bait the small sunfish and then waited for them to bite. I want to say we were really good, but I think the sunfish were just plentiful that day.

William and Grandma Joyce with their flopping catch.

My Grandpa Larry and I very excited over my first catch.

We headed home in the late afternoon with our bountiful catch back down the scenic country roads. Each of us took turns cleaning up from the day spent on the lake. By the time we were all done, my grandparents had the sunfish cleaned and cut, ready to be cooked. William, ever the eager assistant in the kitchen, helped Grandma Joyce dip the cuts into the egg mixture then dredge them in the flour.

My dad, Bruce, watching William prepare the fish.

Soon, the griddle was sizzling with the breaded fish and that wonderful smell wafted back through the screen door into the townhouse. Even those of us who weren’t cooking had gathered in the kitchen, our mouths watering, awaiting the delicious meal and recounts of the day we were about to share.