The Friday night fish fry is the place to be in my hometown during Easter weekend. Almost the entire community comes out for good friends, good food and great times. It's one of the town's big social events of the year.
However, there is a dark side of the fryer. Not everyone is brimming with community pride. There are always people who pass you in line, spill your potato salad down your new sweater, or take the last of piece of chocolate cake with sprinkles. They are mean, callous and cold. I am of course talking about the elderly.
Oh, don't let their fragile exteriors fool you. When you come between a 70-year-old man and his beer-battered fish, look out—there is most likely a cane about to be pile-driven into your foot.
Maybe it is because the fish fry is at the local bowling alley, and the old men feel it is their domain. Perhaps the old women like the thrill of swooping in and taking the last Jell-O cup before their nemesis from the knitting club can get her hands on it. Most likely I am just overreacting because an old woman accidentally spilled chocolate milk on my lap and didn't apologize. She was going way too fast on that scooter and as she swerved to take the corner, her box of milk toppled into my lap. Before I could stop her, she and her Hoveround were gone in a cloud of dust.
Looking back, it was probably my family's own fault. My mom had skipped lunch and my brother had to work at 5:30 p.m., so we sauntered into the fish fry right around 4:30 p.m.
It was a frenzy. The line wrapped around the hall and out the door. All around us, men were snapping their suspenders as they eyed the food hungrily, as the women were talking pleasantly about their last game of Bingo or pinochle. Other than the youth volunteers working the dinner, my brother and I were the youngest by decades.
Things only got worse as we tried to find a seat. There were clearly elderly cliques that my family and I were not a part of. Table after table was denied to us as my brother and I were deemed ""young whipper-snappers who would ruin a nice meal with all our tomfoolery.""
We finally found a table in the back next to the fabulous quilt that was this year's door prize. The raffle at the fish fry is always like a bad episode of ""The Price is Right."" The prize is always a quilt, a grandfather clock or a case of home-brewed beer.
Originally, I thought the home brew might be a nice prize, until one year my dad actually won it. He said it was a delightful mix of hops, urine and motor oil with a slightly skunky after taste. He had the one bottle, and the rest of the case still clutters our storage room.
But for all the drama surrounding the fish fry, the food was good and eventually some family friends wandered in. We had a nice evening as a family, even if we were outcast and I had chocolate milk seeping into my jeans.
On our way out of the fish fry, we were following an older couple to the parking lot. They were friendly to us, and they held each other's hand and their smiles simply beamed. They were sickeningly sweet, really.
We were almost to our car when we heard tires screech. A car had started to pull out and stopped just a few feet from the couple. My mom wanted to run over and see if they needed help, but we quickly saw they had the situation under control.
The woman marched right up to the vehicle and slammed her purse into the car, screaming, ""Watch where the hell you're going dumbass!"" Then she and her husband linked arms and strutted away.
Seeing the ""sweet"" old woman walk away, I could only smile. I only hope I am half as crazy when I reach her age.
If you like fish and old people, e-mail Megan at mcorbett2@wisc.edu.
