Gone Fishin'

Reel in family and friends with this classic Southern feast

- JOSH MILLER

EVERY SUMMER for the better part of 60 years, my extended family gathered for a week at a state park near Sardis, Mississippi.

Matriarchs and patriarchs, aunts, uncles, and cousins would come from all around the SouthJackson, Memphis, and even Virginiato tighten the weave that the long year had loosened.

Early in the morning, before my grandmother started frying bacon, the baritone sputter of an outboard motor would fracture the only stillness Sardis Lake would see that day. Moments later, a metal jon boat would glide by with my grandfather on the back bench seat with one hand on the tiller handle, the cresting V of the boat’s wake rippling the serene water behind him. I was never much of a fisherman, but every so often, I would tag along to check the trotline. Sometimes the haul was a generous bounty; other times it was slim pickings.

Each family was responsible for one supper during the time together. But our final feast was always a fish fry, and the men were in charge. They would fish all week long, at dawn and dusk and anytime in between, hoarding their catch for the big night. The guys cleaned their spoils while everyone else bustled about, fixing the sides, making iced tea, and lighting citronella candles.

When the frying was done and all of the kids had been called up, we'd gather on the hillside and tuck into our supper. Perched in folding chairs and balancing paper plates in our laps, we'd visit in between bites of cornmeal-crusted catfish, bass, and bream. As the sun melted into the lake and lightning bugs began blinking in the giant oaks overhead, I understood why summer is better in the South.