And the Good Lord Said, “Fry Some Fish”

The church folks across the river from my house had a fish fry and sing a few months ago. It tickled me to be invited, and I wasted no time getting there.

A winding country road connects our yard to the churchyard. It’s a graveled county endeavor that sometimes meanders through a canopy of oaks, at other times through rolling pastures dotted with grazing cows. It looked like a picture you might see on a feed store calendar.

The autumn countryside painted with yellows, oranges, and reds would have made the 20-minute drive soothing if not for the mouth-watering thoughts that filled my head and made my empty stomach growl with expectation.

From experience, I knew what the day had in store. That experience came from spending my childhood in an Assembly of God church where tradition dictated that we never pass up a chance to have an “all day to do.” That meant dinner on the grounds and, afterward, a gospel sing to keep everybody awake. I think holding such get-togethers might have become a commandment if Moses hadn’t run out of rock to write on.

When I drove into the churchyard, things were already underway. Boys were throwing footballs and chasing girls with anything scary they could find. The smaller children were warring with crab apples that hitched a ride to the event in the hay-bale chairs.

Some men, who smelled like “Old Spice” and peanut oil, were frying fish and hush puppies. Their efforts fogged in the area with thick, pleasing smells that mixed in a coherent bond, binding everyone to the boundaries of the church as if they were smitten by the smells and handcuffed to a hush puppy.

Two tables over, a woman pulled tin foil off a jagged mountain of fried chicken, just in case some finger-licking loafer didn’t like fish. She smelled like “Skin So Soft” and “Juicy Fruit.” Other women were busy popping Tupperware lids off bowls of tater salad and baked beans, all tasty clichés of a Southern fish fry. Each bowl had a name taped to the bottom so it could find its way home that night. I stood at one end of the table, lusting over a 12-layer chocolate cake. Lord, forgive me for my hoggish thoughts.

Then, like a bucket brigade to put out the fire in onlookers’ stomachs, men started passing dishpans of fried fish and hush puppies, placing them atop strung-out sawhorses with sheets of plywood laid on top. These makeshift tables had to be sturdy. Asking a Walmart folding table to hold up that much goodness would be like expecting a tricycle tire to hold up a loaded log truck.

Nearby, just in case someone got clumsy, a dog prayed, waited, and wagged.

To say the blessing, the preacher recruited the deacon who never had much to say. On occasions like this, blessings half as long are twice as good. I guess the preacher was in a hurry to climb that mountain of fried chicken.

I know a religious experience when I see one: bream fried so crispy that you can munch the tails; old whiskey bottles full of syrup just the right thickness for soppin’; cast-iron pots of peas with boiled okra pods laid out on top like spokes on a chuck wagon wheel; butter beans swimming in bacon drippings; and enough sweet tea to send folks at the local nursing home into a diabetic downturn.

And don’t forget that classic southern religious experience called nanner puddin’.

Can I get an amen?

Will somebody please say the blessing?

Click here to buy Billy’s book, Seasons in Beulah Land