Catch of the Day

Fishing was my family's go-to, inexpensive recreational sport. We spent many weekends at the lake casting our lines into the water.

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, reading a book or writing a story while 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. 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 doing just that. "Come on. Go with us," my friend pleaded. "We'll have fun at the lake! Promise!"

"OK," I reluctantly replied.

We arrived at the lake at dawn and planted ourselves on the sun-kissed shoreline, casting our lines into the water, using nothing more than simple cane poles and bobbers. What are the chances of me catching any fish? I thought after standing still for what seemed like forever. All of a sudden, my bobber zinged under the water, forcing me to reel in a fish -- a shimmering 8-inch 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 rebaited my hook and cast my line out into the water. By day's end, I'd caught four more perch. I was elated, knowing my catch of the day was worthy of familial accolades.

Once I was at 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; 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 fillet my fish with only an occasional gag. I successfully prepared the cornbread mix, dipped my fish in the batter, and fried them despite the smell permeating Mother's kitchen.

"Wonderful texture," Dad said after taking his first bite.

"Bet you can't eat a whole fillet," my younger brother taunted me.

"Yes, I can! Challenge accepted!" I snapped back. Stabbing a bite of fish with my fork, I doused it in ketchup and swallowed it whole. I repeated the process until I'd eaten an entire fillet. With each distasteful bite, I watched his eyes widen.

He turned toward Mother and said, in a disbelieving voice, "Mom, I guess she wasn't adopted. She's one of us after all."