If Catfish Had Nine Lives(69)

            I was again surprised by how the cowboy poetry crowd had continued to grow. Jim and Cliff had thought about not allowing any more visitors, but the logistics of such a ban were too difficult to seriously consider. They’d had Orly and a few of his crew keep track of names of new arrivals, and they checked with him constantly, apparently running names in their criminal databases to see if anyone suspicious joined the activities, or could no longer be found. It had to be a difficult task, added to all the other difficult tasks Orly was handling.

            “Sure, you can fry any fish, but it’s hard to beat a fried catfish. Its flavor works perfectly with the breading and the spices. Speaking of which, the breading is made up of buttermilk, and then cornmeal, corn flour, garlic powder, some peppers and a dash of hot sauce.”

            “Sounds too spicy,” Jed added.

            “Try it. If it’s too much, you can always mellow the hot stuff, but I don’t recommend it. A little kick to your catter is the only way to go.”

            “I see.”

            Esther caught my eye and smiled and waved. I waved back.

            “So there I’ve whisked together your buttermilk and hot sauce. That’s what’s in this bowl.” Gram pointed.

            Gram was set up pretty close to the west campfire, which blazed hot but still under control. Orly had lit the fire according to Gram’s specific directions. A grill had been placed above the flames, and a skillet with about a quarter inch of oil filling its bottom sat on the grill. Gram had fried catfish so many times in her life that she knew about how high the flames needed to be to keep the oil at the right temperature. I’d never attempted to fry anything outside, but I knew that the oil would be about 350 degrees, and would remain close to that as long as Gram was in charge of the show.

            Along with the small folding table in front of her where she’d displayed the proper way to clean and fillet the fish, there was also a cooler full of more fish being kept on ice. There’d be lots of fish fried this evening, but the duties would be turned over to a couple of the poets after Gram was done with her part of the demonstration. She’d watch everything else closely, though. If catfish were going to be fried by someone other than Gram, the cooks would at least be supervised by Ms. Missouri, Anna Winston, herself.

            She took the fillet she was working with and slapped it down on a couple paper towels.

            “You have to make sure the fillets are dry before you work with them,” she said as she wrapped and patted the fish. “And then drag the fillets through the buttermilk, and then the cornmeal and spices.” She dunked and then pulled the fillet through the buttermilk, lifting it when it was well covered and giving it a small shake to get rid of the excess, and then she dipped it in the cornmeal and spices, making sure both sides were coated. “Place it in the oil. Take care not to burn yourself. The oil can pop up and get you.”

            Somehow Gram never burned herself.

            “Hi,” a quiet voice said from behind me.

            “Hi, Esther,” I said as I turned. She’d snuck around the crowd. “How are you?”

            “I’m fine. You have a minute?” she said.

            “Sure.”

            So we wouldn’t disturb Gram’s demonstration, we moved away from the crowd. We stood next to a tent that had peace sign patches sewn into it and had probably been made in the 1960s.

            “Everything okay?” I asked.

            “Sure, everything’s fine,” she said. “I just wanted to . . . gosh, I have no idea how I managed to maybe get in the middle of something, but I might have, and I wanted to tell someone. Honestly, Betts, this has been a strange and kind of awful trip, but kind of good, too. I’ve appreciated Jake’s research, and he’s such a sweetie, but the murder has made everything so scary, and I just heard that your brother was the one who got beaten up and I wanted to talk to you about that.”