Dish smells fishy
ELAINE HOLLOWAY
Rogers
The year was 1972. The season was summer or fall, but stifling hot. The setting is Ro-Lynn Hills mobile home park at Monte Ne on Beaver Lake. It was 3 in the afternoon. The crappie should have been thawed, but I forgot to get them out of the freezer.
I suddenly remembered those frozen fish, joyfully caught by my husband, Mike. He was bringing a friend over that evening for a promised fish fry with all the fixings. That includes Mike's "pink sauce," that only he seems to enjoy. It has equal globs of Miracle Whip and ketchup, waiting for crispy filets to be dipped and devoured.
The guys would arrive in a half hour. This Missouri bootheel girl has learned that fried crappie rule supreme in Northwest Arkansas. With the fish still frozen, what was I going to have ready for two ravenous guys? My creative side kicked into gear.
I knew I'd make a hit with a new dish that had just shown up on the grocery store shelves. I'd open a can of green beans for a side and the meal would be complete, including the main requirement, fish! I was poised to blush from the compliments cast my way.
I set the table and heard, "Honey, we're home! Got the grease going? We're starving."
When Mike stepped through the door, I knew things may not go as I'd hoped. "What's that smell?," he asked.
I replied with a cheerful, "Hi babe. I thought we'd have something different. I forgot to set the crappie out, so -- tadah! -- Tuna Helper."
With his facial expression, there was no doubt he found the aroma unpleasant. He and his friend quickly exited with parting words. "We're going to a restaurant in town."
I don't know if they found a place that served fried crappie. We never mentioned that incident again, ever. But I learned a lesson. The only fish I've ever prepared in a skillet since then has been coated in cornmeal and immersed in hot oil. Go fried crappie!
Bamboo rod
BILL ROWLAND
Little Rock
My dad had an old bamboo fly rod that was shared by him, my brother and me. We took turns catching those big redear. From 1948-53, we caught thousands. Each trip we'd carefully put it away to fish another day.
One day dad and I went fishing in a bay off the White River in Arkansas County. He was trying to catch a few crappie for the family. I fished for whatever would bite. I had two poppers rigged on the fly rod. What caught my eye was a monster bullfrog along the bank.
I kept enticing the frog while my dad constantly said, "Son, don't mess with the frogs." Before I quit messing I was in a mess. I had a frog big as a basketball on the hook. There was a battle like you can't imagine. Frog in the water. Frog out of the water. Frog in the boat.
Soon the leader broke and so did the bamboo rod. It was a shambles. My dad used the rod one more time that day, but not for catching fish. I think you get it. I sure got it!
I still have fond memories of that old rod and the enjoyment we had with it.
Exotic sting
CAROL S. SPEARS
West Fork
I like adventure travel and observing native people. This story takes place in Zanzibar, off the coast of Tanzania in Africa. I was there in 2011 with a friend after successfully climbing Kilimanjaro!
Being an anthropologist, I wanted to see how the locals fished and what they were catching. Some were in the water spear fishing, so I waded toward them. Soon I noticed everyone was leaving the water and surmised the tide was coming in. I started wading and swimming toward the beach, then felt extreme pain on my right ankle. I'd been stung by a sting ray. I thought, "If I'm allergic to the sting I might not live."
I dragged my leg to shore, out of the surf, and awkwardly climbed the 20-plus steps to the resort. A scuba instructor came to help and squeezed the puncture wound, causing it to bleed more. He put some smelly antiseptic in an old plastic bucket and submerged my foot in almost boiling water. There were no doctors or medical facilities nearby.
Later, an islander came by. If the stinger was in my ankle, he wanted to remove it with a knife, but no knife was found. He squeezed some lime juice on the wound. I hobbled through the rest of the trip with a colorful, swollen ankle.
When I returned home to West Fork, I visited my doctor. My good luck continued because she knew more than most how to treat sting ray stings. I will never forget her laughing loudly, saying this was likely the first time any doctor's office in Northwest Arkansas had treated a sting ray sting. I wonder what the medical code for that is? Just so you know, a piece of the stinger was not in the wound.
Turtle soup
BILL SCHAEFER
Lincoln
This story took place a long time ago on a camping-fishing trip to a bayou in Woodruff County. I was about 12 or 13 years old and the only kid, along with my dad and four or five other men.
I've written fish stories before about these trips that produced flathead and blue catfish to 25 pounds. This trip, a turtle that weighed more than 100 pounds got hooked on our trotline while trying to eat a 9-pound blue catfish. Had it not gotten hooked on a line near the catfish, the turtle would have eaten the catfish instead of us eating it.
That turtle dressed out to 56 pounds. It made good soup but the meat was tough.
Sports on 06/25/2015