Colorado has its fresh water trout.  Texas has it redfish bay.  Cities have their fish and chips.  And I’ll have fish any place, just make it fried!  Fried fish.

Scene One:  A pan full of trout barely past fingerling stage, cooked on an open fire in the Colorado Rockies.   The pickup camper is in position to give a little shelter from the afternoon sprinkle, the folding chairs are pulled up close by the fire.  Turn only once, fish are crispy and delicious.  Food fit for a king—a poor king but still a king.

Scene Two:  How perfectly delicious are the redfish caught in the Gulf water of South Texas!  Fish fried in the motel kitchenette.  “Don’t turn the fish too soon.”   But that requires patience.  Those fillets are almost an inch thick.  So turn, turn, turn, turn.  The crust is beginning to fall off.  Turn again.  “Are you sure this stove is getting hot enough?” Finally a call that the fish is fork-flaky ready.   Food fit for a king—a poor king, but still a king.

Scene Three:  Crunchy good in fast food chains.  “I’ll have the number seven, please, with vinegar and tartar sauce, please.” Get the forks and napkins.  Let’s sit over here opposite the door.  A bit grungy in here.  Oh, but taste that crunchy fish!  Food fit for a king—a poor king, but still a king.

My requirement for enjoying fish—make it fried and give me plenty.  Poor, rich kings.  Six ounces of fine, fine, fish—braised, browned, blackened, sautéed, seared, stuffed, grilled, rolled, or raw.  Too bad they don’t get to eat with me—mountains, gulf, city; fish—fried and plentiful.  Poor, rich kings.

(Assignment for Blogging lesson ten, favorite food.)