Two little words, “fish fry” conjure so many memories for me.
I hear my Popo’s fiddle and the riotous laughter of gossiping aunts. I smell pipe tobacco and hot grease. Images dance through my mind; Momo’s apron releasing ghost-like whisps of flour and cornmeal as she carried a piled high tray of battered fish to a black iron pot. I hear crickets, see shooting stars and pine trees swaying in the blue evening light. I smile, and remember learning to dance the Texas Two Step, standing on my Daddy’s feet under a full moon.
Tonight, my husband’s band of fisherman friends held their own fish fry in our driveway.
Twenty or so guys gathered ’round to drink beer and swap fish stories.
Big dogs and small boys darted between their legs.
Every five seconds someone shouted, “Careful near the pot boys!”
Mama carried out a Tomato Pie in each hand to the sound of whoops and hollars and smacking lips.
(I’m totally willing to believe the sound effects were for my hot bod and not at all about the food).
A delicious time was had by all.
This is not just local eating, folks. This is what memories are made of.