For those of you that fish, you know if you're lucky, you'll catch a bluegill the size of your hand. Or, maybe, that makes you unlucky, since that is the easiest part of the whole shebang. If you're hooking a fish in the first place, I personally hope you will eat it. Catch and release feels cruel to me, and fish are tasty! Planning to eat bluegill means you're going to have to filet it in teeny, tiny, thin slices from its little fish carcass. A surgeon’s work, to be sure, but worth it. I don’t do that, but I am happy for those who do clean fish.
I grew up in South Bend, Indiana with a father who crafted his own wooden rowboat, which meant we went fishing. I had my own bamboo pole with a red and white bobber, but I never enjoyed it quite as much as my dad did. My clearest memories of fishing on Pleasant Lake include hanging my butt over the side of the boat to pee, and the snacks. Little Heather often enjoyed an off-brand soda, and maybe some pretzel goldfish crackers. Because yes, Virginia, Goldfish crackers did exist that long ago. Cracker Jack was my favorite treat from the bait shop, and that was back when they actually put little prizes in it. I live to eat now, and I lived to eat then. I am a snacky girl.
What I did enjoy about fishing with my Dad, was when he would take the fifteen or so bluegills he would catch, filet them (which I didn't watch because it's gross), and then fry them. He would dip them in an egg wash, then flop them around in a mix of cornmeal and flour. It was a messy business, and I usually got drafted for this part of eating fish. Dad would drop the tiny bites of fish into a cast iron frying pan with sizzling butter, dash them with salt and maybe pepper, and cook them till they just started to brown. At the dinner table, we would squeeze lemon over them and eat with gusto. The crunchy little bits of heaven were demolished, and there were no leftovers. I never realized until eating them recently as an adult, how much work really went into bluegill. How much...Love.
My Dad’s brother Johnny has a twenty-four foot boat called the Awespray III, and my husband John traveled with Dad to fish for Salmon with Uncle Johnny on Lake Michigan. Getting those huge slabs of Salmon to put into our freezer was an utter delight. Hearing the downtime fishing tales of sunsets and picnics and midday naps at the hotel made me almost wish I liked fishing.
My two daughters enjoy fishing with my father, and their dad. Part of the reason my daughters are pescatarian instead of vegetarian is because of fishing. They love to fish and they love to eat fish. While both of them have avoided meat and poultry for longer than I can pinpoint, fish and seafood stays on their menu.
Recently, I excavated a container from the back of my freezer. I knew it held a sparse amount of bluegill filets, because my Dad brought it to our house. He is the only person I know who eschews Tupperware for old yogurt containers affectionately called “Danonware.” He had made bluegill one Tuesday night for my daughters, saving back a small amount for my future enjoyment. I didn’t want to catch it, I didn’t want to filet it, and I sure didn’t want to cook it. The childhood bliss of bluegill came only from my Dad’s hands. I defrosted the fish and asked if he would make them for me for breakfast. Of course, he agreed.
As my Dad got to work in the kitchen that morning, trouble ensued. Our family is very particular about the timing of mornings, because we all have Things To Do. Our small kitchen is not, in fact, cozy with more than one person in it, it is annoying. Add in a Geezer frying fish: DISASTER! My husband, who was working from home that day, complained about the smell of fish. My daughters had to dodge elbows and spitting butter to get their coffee, their tea. I, of course, added my ample body to the chaos to watch memories come to life in that frying pan.
I never even sat down to eat the bluegill. I ate it from the paper towel covered plate as the pieces came out of the pan. I stood beside my father, both of us grinning because he did the batter wrong and everything still worked out perfectly. I begrudgingly shared bites with my family, and even my Dad made a breakfast of the tiny succulent filets. They tasted a lot like love.
Music: "Fish and Whistle" by John Prine
