Unfortunately, these fine words are ones I will probably not find an opportunity to utter any time soon.
It’s Friday, it’s Lent, and where I come from, that means it’s time for a fish fry. But, Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Wisconsin anymore. I googled “fish fry” for D.C. and the most notable result was a big banner ad: “Single? Give that up for Lent.” Catholicmatch.com.
No, internet, I’m not googling to find a husband. I’m googling to find some fried fish and some good coleslaw and some rye bread and a baked potato with butter on it. Plenty of butter on it.
I should say, it looks like there are actually a few fish fries in the D.C. area. Unfortunately, they appear to be at churches out in the suburbs, and stopping-and-going through an hour of rush hour traffic snarl is one of my least favorite things. Also, let’s be honest, the suburbs of Northern Virginia just don’t become the fish fry experience.
Since I probably won’t find a reasonably accessible fish fry where I am today, there are two fish fry dreams in my head this morning.
Dream one: I join my mother and grandmother in her nursing home in Wausau, Wisconsin, this evening. My mom has ordered them both a take-out fish fry. It will be prepared and delivered by St. Anne’s.
Dream two: my dad and I drive down to the restaurant/bar on Fish Lake a few miles from his house outside of Duluth. We sit at a booth with a window on the lake. I look out to the ice fishing shacks. If we’re really hungry, we perhaps ask for an order of Leinenkugel’s-battered cheese curds. Then I get to say, “I’ll have the walleye special, please.”