Catch of the Day

by sun-kissed shoreline patiently I cast my line waiting for a catch Fishing was my family’s go-to, inexpensive recreational sport. Many weekends were spent at the lake checking trout lines for fish or standing on the lake’s shore, casting our lines into the water, waiting for the bobber to bob, hoping to reel in a fish. However, the act of actually fishing wasn’t my idea of a wonderful weekend. In fact, I never actually fished. Oh sure, I liked riding in the boat and being with my family, but I preferred sitting quietly, taking in the aquatic sights and sounds, and reading my book. When my family fished from the shore, I laid a blanket under a nearby tree, again reading a book or writing a story, filling my lungs with fresh air, and taking in the sounds of nature. Back at home, I naturally didn’t participate in gutting and cleaning the fish. The thought of even watching was enough to turn my stomach. When we had a fish fry, I didn’t eat the fish either. I just couldn’t get past the fishy smell; and, as a result, I received a certain amount of old-fashioned ribbing, especially from my younger brother. “Mom, are you sure she’s one of us? Maybe she was adopted!” Although I wasn’t keen on fishing, there was that time I succumbed to teenage pressure and ended up fishing. “Come on. Go with us,” my friend pleaded. “We’ll have fun at the lake! Promise!” “Okay,” I replied, reluctantly agreeing to go fishing with her and her dad. We arrived at the lake at dawn and planted ourselves on the sun-kissed shoreline, casting our lines into the water with nothing more than simple wooden cane poles and bobbers. "What are the chances of me catching any fish,” I thought after standing still for what seemed like forever. I was bored and filled the time gazing out upon the lake taking in the stillness and focusing on the sights and sounds of nature, forgetting to watch my bobber. All of a sudden, my bobber zinged under the water, forcing me to reel in a fish—a shimmering, eight-inch-long perch. “I caught my first fish! I caught my first fish,” I shouted, dancing along the shoreline. I got caught up in the moment and immediately re-baited my hook and cast my line out into the water. By day’s end, I’d caught five more perch. I was elated knowing my catch of the day was worthy of familial accolades. “Finally, I ‘belonged!’,” I said under my breath. Once home with my ‘catch of the day,’ Dad took my picture as proof that I had, in fact, caught fish just like the rest of the family. But my excitement quickly turned to panic, for I’d forgotten Dad’s cardinal rule about fishing. “You catch 'em, you clean 'em. You clean 'em, you cook ‘em; you cook ‘em, you eat 'em," he asserted. “But Dad,” I grumbled, a sense of dread rolling through my stomach. “You know I don’t like to clean fish, and I sure don’t want to eat them.” “No buts,” he replied before turning and walking away. I somehow managed to clean, gut, and filet my fish with only an occasional gag. I successfully prepared the cornbread mix, dipped my fish in the batter, and fried them despite the heavy fish smell permeating Mother’s kitchen. I served the fish to my family along with hushpuppies, mashed potatoes, iced tea, and ketchup. “Wonderful texture,” Dad said after taking his first bite. “Bet you can’t eat a whole fillet,” my younger brother said, taunting me. “Yes I can! Challenge accepted!” I snapped back, stabbing a bite of fish with my fork, dousing it in ketchup, and swallowing it whole. I repeated the process until I’d eaten an entire fillet. With each distasteful bite, I watched him, his eyes widening. He gasped, and his mouth fell open. Then he turned toward Mother and said in a disbelieving voice, “Mom, I guess she wasn’t adopted. She’s one of us after all.”