My Father Is a Fish
There’s a little take-away place on the walk between work and home called Mama Oliech that I’ve been wanting to try for weeks. All they sell (for approx. $4) is these dudes, which they deep-fry in an ENORMOUS cast-iron witch-cauldron that a woman in a very bedraggled toque stirs with a spoon AS TALL AS SHE IS while another dirty-hatted dude stands over an GIGANTOR fish-and-fly pile and cuts in those side slits and then throws each fish into the vat while humming tunelessly along to the gospel radio station and this is a long run-on sentence so I hope you have all had time to absorb how (HUGELY) rad this place is.
Plus this little guy (Jerrold) reminded me of one of my favorite moments this past summer—sitting with my dad on the steps of an abandoned church outside Decorah, frying up some little brookies we’d caught that morning. But getting reminded of that made me kinda bummed, so I did what any sane human would do: yelled “YOU’RE NOT MY DAD” to the no one in the apartment, went outside for a cigarette, came back, ate Jerrold with some Thai sweet chili sauce, and called it a draw. IT’S OKAY HE’S NOT MY DAD