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Angling was one of our feeble attempts at outdoorism during the Dean Kline Queen's Lake camping trip. Our meager gear, much of it hijacked from unsuspecting discount stores, included lightweight tackle and assorted rubber wormlike creatures that nowadays you wouldn't buy for an enemy's kid. But this didn't deter us from trying to catch those monster 8 ounce bream that lurked in this former burrow pit.
We always imagined we'd lay into a
monster bass or some such other pipe
dream. Our fishing usually lasted long enough to get bored -- about 15
minutes or so, or until one of us found another diversion, such as sabotaging
one another¹s gear, indulging
in dirt clod wars, or eating.
Toward the end of the trip, our food was depleted, it was pissing down rain, and we were all at the realization that the trip must come to an end. It was time for a stoned meal. Shuey at this time regaled us with the legend of John Wayne's "Corn Dodger," which immediately sent the majority of our party away from his droning nonsense. While Arnold and Shuey combined dregs of butter and cornmeal with water in anticipation of a golden brown, deliciously light treat, Milam proceeded to work on his fishing skills.
Soon after our golden goodness turned coal-black, and became a flame extender for the fire, Milam yelps something about getting the "big one." Being bored out of our clouded minds, we jumped up to lend moral support as Milam wrenched in the 9 and 1/2-ounce monster.
"Man, I¹m gonna eat like a king tonight!" Milam crowed, as we corrected him to say it would be impossible for him to be kingly since he was such a queen.
Not having any culinary talents, Milam pondered how he would prepare his aquatic bounty. We suggested a pan-fried fish with a light breading of our remaining cornmeal. "Cool," he said.
Now, the normal angler would tend
to want to remove scales and guts from a
fish, but not Milam. He deemed it too "cruel." Instead, he popped
the fidgeting fish into a small
paper bag full of corn meal, guts, scales and all. As the fish
gasped in an attempt to wring oxygen from this death-powder, Milam
removed the fish and placed it into a smoking pan full of oil. The fish wriggled
and browned on one side. Milam
deftly turned the fish over after about 30
seconds, and proceeded to attempt
to achieve the same level of paleness on
the other side.
Another minute or so passed, and Milam pronounced his feast complete. Onto a plate it went, and as the recently deceased fish stared pathetically at him, Milam realized he couldn¹t bare to consume the poor creature, whereupon he proceeded to release his catch back into the lake, crusty coating and all.
As the fish floated lazily on its side, trailing rehydrated corn product behind him, several of his finned former pals arrived to taste Milam¹s handiwork. Much to our delight and his chagrin, even these unintelligent creatures knew enough not to partake of such a floating hunk of crap.
Where a mere 10 minutes before, the fish had been happily swimming amongst the weeds that lined the lake bed, now it was nothing more than a pollutant, all thanks to our idiot friend and his crusty pal.