My husband and I are enjoying an Alabama getaway, but we miss the comforts and familiarity of home. To ease our homesickness, I decided to find a fish fry in the area.Friday night fish fries have played a significant role in my life. They’re a nod to tradition and a reminder that simple pleasures bring the greatest joy. The first fish fry I recall was more than 60 years ago. My father had gotten some overtime at American Motors, and when my mother put on a dress and lipstick, I knew we were in for a special night.

Dad drove to DeMark’s Restaurant in downtown Racine, Wisconsin. It was rare when we went out to eat, so I relished the sights and sounds. It was a workingman’s restaurant, and community members surrounded us. The sounds of clattering dishes mixed with their booming voices and laughter.

My sister, brother, and I could order a soda. I chose orange. What a treat! My father ordered a beer, and my mother got a brandy old-fashioned. After we ordered our food, Mom asked my sister and me to take our rambunctious little brother for a walk around the block. I realize now that it was her way of enjoying her drink and her husband without having to contend with us kids. 

I was 10, and my sister was 12. When I wasn’t steering my unpredictable six-year-old brother back onto the sidewalk, I could look around. We lived out in the country, so soaking in the traffic, stores, and unfamiliar neighborhoods expanded my horizons and gave me a broader sense of community. We made it around the block and discovered our food had arrived. The golden-crusted fish, coleslaw, and French fries were all mouth-watering. but I found the buttered caraway rye bread especially delicious. All was right in the world.

My mother often served fish at home. After my dad and uncle took me trout fishing on opening day, Mom cooked the fish I’d caught in the familiar cast-iron skillet. (E-mail me for the recipe.) I watched my family feast on my trout, happy to have helped contribute to the family. 

Dad also took me night smelt fishing. I soaked in the ambiance of the jovial men and a few women who had gathered on the Racine Lake Michigan pier in the spring with their coolers of beer. I got to lower the pulley-operated square drop net into the lake. After waiting a few minutes, I pulled on the rope. It was almost too heavy for me to pull up! Thirty or so smelt wiggled on top of the net. Dad scooped them out and dumped them into a 5-gallon pail. Later that week, my mother had the job of cleaning these 3”-6” fish (she used a toothbrush to get the guts out) and then frying them up in the cast-iron skillet.

Years passed, and at age 20, a coworker invited me over for a fish fry. He prepared beer-battered bluegills that he’d caught in a northern Wisconsin lake. Delicious. I ended up marrying the guy.

Now, he and I enjoy inviting friends over for Frank’s famous blue gill or walleye fish fries. While vacationing at our northern Wisconsin cabin, Frank and family members often cook the fresh fish they caught over an open fire. We set potato salad and brown beans on the picnic table and then gather around the skillet with our plates, eagerly waiting for the words, “They’re done.” 

We also enjoy trying out various restaurants and sometimes invite friends to join us. So it made sense that, Friday night, while missing home, I looked for a community fish fry.

Since it’s lent, several local churches offered one. I chose one hosted by The Knights of Columbus, which gave the proceeds to a home for homeless pregnant women. Besides getting crispy white fish, hushpuppies, French fries, coleslaw, and dessert, the church had live music. A man and woman joined us at our table. This hard-working couple had operated a farm in the Midwest, and even though we spent only half an hour together, I got that familiar, heart-warming feeling of community and home. 

As I finished my last bite, I took in the ambiance: sounds of clattering dishes mixed with laughter and booming voices. All was right in the world.