The Fried Fish Valentine to my Mama and Daddy

The Fried Fish Valentine to my Mama and Daddy
Written February 14, 2003

“Get the iron frying pan out of the oven and put it on the big front burner,” she called.

“OK,” he said, “now what?”

“Take the fish out of the icebox (she still sometimes called it the icebox) and drain the extra water around it into the sink.”

“OK, what’s next?”

“Come back here a minute.”

He walked the few steps down the hall from the kitchen to her bedroom, pausing in the doorway, noticing once again how small she was, lying there on her side of the bed, propped up with two pillows under her head. She still stayed on her side of the bed, even though he had long since moved into another bedroom to make her more comfortable. Her side was the wrong side for getting quickly to the bathroom, but her habits died hard just as her body was doing. Her white hair was fluffed around her head, unlike the sleek dark hair she’d had when they married, but her black eyes were bright as ever.

“Let me explain the whole thing to you so I don’t have to yell,” she said.

“OK,” he said, always agreeable. He was always quick to avoid a fuss, a confrontation. She’d been the one with the comeback, the argument, the last word. But seldom now. She’d endured these final months without complaining, undemanding. The will to resist had gone out of her.

“Get everything ready before you start,” she said. “Get out the Wesson Oil from the panty, and the flour—it’s in a big jar with a screw-on lid, and salt and pepper from the cabinet over the stove, and the fish. You already have it out. You’ll need a plate with some paper towels on it to drain the fish on when they’re done and a knife and fork to turn the fish in the pan. Then come back here.”

He went back into the kitchen and snapped on the overhead light. He rummaged around in the pantry to find the oil and the flour, trying not to disturb too much the orderly rows she stored things in. He noticed for the first time the familiar food they’d eaten for more than fifty years. Corn Flakes for him. All-Bran for her. Crunchy peanut butter, store-brand canned beans, corn, and tomatoes. Aunt Jemima pancake syrup, Nabisco saltines, Bama apple jelly, Borden’s evaporated milk. His mother had used Carnation evaporated milk, but his wife had her own favorite brands. Funny that he noticed that now.

He put everything she’d mentioned on the counter net to the gas stove and headed back down the hall.

“OK, honey, I’ve got it all ready to go. How do you flour the fish?”

“You just get one of those shallow bowls next to the plates and put a scoop of flour in it. Then coat each piece of fish on both sides just before you put it in the frying pan to cook. First you have to heat up the oil, though. That takes a couple of minutes.

“Okey, dokey.” He headed back for the kitchen. “You’d think as many times as I’ve watched my mother and then Minna Lou fry fish I’d know how,” he though to himself. “And me a commercial fisherman.”

He lit the burner, put the pan on to heat, and poured in enough oil to generously cover the bottom. “That much I remember,” he thought.

“How do you tell when the oil’s hot enough?” he called down the hall.

“Oh, give it a minute or so. You’ll see movement in the oil. You can drop one tiny drop of water to test it, but stand back, it’ll splatter.”

He decided to forego the water test. To his surprise, there was a small scoop in the flour jar, so he dipped it in the flour and put one scoop in the shallow bowl he found next to the plates. He picked up one fillet with his right hand and laid the fish down in the flour. He tentatively dabbed at it with his left index finger.

“Wash your hands first,” she called from the bedroom.

“OK,” he called back and splashed some water across his fingers, drying them on the sides of his khaki pants. He turned the fillet over in the flour, picked it up and gently eased it into the pan, as he had seen her do a million times. The hot oil sizzled and splattered out.

“Cut the heat down,” she called. “You’ve got it too high.”

“Uh-huh,” he said under his breath. He finished flouring the other three fillets and got them into the hot oil without incident. Now the oil was barely bubbling and the fillets just lay there soaking up the oil. He gingerly turned the knob for the burner just a bit, and the oil obliged with rapid bubbles and the edges of the fish were turning brown.

“Smells good back here,” she called. “Did you remember to turn on the vent fan? Otherwise the whole house will smell like fish.”

He turned on the vent fan as quietly as he could, but the durn thing made a real racket.

“They’re getting brown on the bottom,” he called. “How do I turn them over?”

“With the knife and fork,” she called back. “You’ve seen me do it. Just stick the fork in the fish and use the knife to turn it over.”

The first one he tried went over with a big splash and oil got all over the top of the stove. But the next two went a little better, although one broke in half during the turn. The last one was perfect, although a littler browner than he might have preferred. “It must be the one I put in first,” he thought. “Should have turned it first.”

“How do I tell when they’re done?” he called down the hall.

“Use the fork to peek under. Remember to use the knife also to liff them out so they don’t fall apart.”

“A little late to be learning that,” he thought. In just a few more minutes, though, he had a few bites of fresh-caught, fresh-cooked mullet on a plate to take back to his bed-ridden dying wife, who would never again stand at that stove, effortlessly frying fish for him.

Later that evening, his sister stopped by to visit and to see how she might help. She spied the grease-spattered kitchen, utensils everywhere, smelled the aroma of fried fish in the air. Surprised, she said “Have you been cooking?”

“Fried some fish,” he said. “Nothing to it.”