Panfish Pie!

Something from the tackle box:

       The people started crying when God’s law was read to them.  Then Nehemiah the governor, Ezra the priest and teacher, and the Levites who had been teaching the people all said, “This is a special day for the Lord your God.  So don’t be sad and don’t cry!”

       Nehemiah told the people, “Enjoy your good food and wine and share some with those who didn’t have anything to bring.  Don’t be sad!  This is a special day for the Lord, and he will make you happy and strong.”

       The Levites encouraged the people by saying, “This is a sacred day, so don’t worry or mourn!”  When the people returned to their homes, they celebrated by eating and drinking and by sharing their food with those in need, because they had understood what had been read to them. 

a light catch for an evening on jordan lake

        When it comes to the trout and bass that I go after, be it with a fly rod or spinning tackle, I am a dedicated practitioner of ‘catch and release’ fishing.  However, I am very much a ‘pot’ fisherman when I am in pursuit of panfish.  Bluegills, sunfish, perch, and crappies, if they are at least six inches long, are consigned to the creel, stringer, bucket, fish cage, or live well, as the particular fishing circumstances may dictate.  They have an imposed appointment to keep with the three ‘F’s, fillet knife, freezer, and frying pan. 

done up just the way I like them

       I like panfish.  I like them rolled in cracker-meal and pan-fried golden brown, served with a little tartar sauce, and fresh steamed vegetables on the side. It is a delicious repast to experience, and I am blessed by the fact that my wife likes them prepared this way too!  When the fishing has been good, we eat very well. 

       We also like sharing this favorite feast with others whenever the fishing has been better than good and we have a bountiful supply of panfish fillets on hand to share, which happens fairly often here in the Water Winter Wonderland in which we live.  A good number of friends, family, neighbors and parishioners can all attest to just how good Kathy’s pan-fried panfish really are. 

       That all being said, not everyone is a big fish-eater, and not every fish-eater is as an enthusiastic fried fish eater as I am.  Take my son, Nate, his wife, Tracy, and the three grands, Nolan, Gwen and Lydia.  They’ve done the pan-fried panfish thing a good number of times at our house over the years, and while there have never been any complaints, the last fish dinner did elicit a comment from my son that motivated me to undertake the culinary adventure I am about to relate. 

       “Wow, that sure was good, Mom, as always.  But ya know, Dad, you ought to check out some other recipes for your bluegills.  Just for a little variety, ya know.  Maybe something broiled or baked, with a glaze or something.  That would be good.”

       Now, I’m thinking; What kind of heresy is this!?...  Well… I can take a hint… better than most... I guess… Well… I CAN take a hint… even if it stings… just a little bit.

      But I’m saying;  “Sure, son.  That sounds like a good idea.  I’ll look into it,” as I put the whole idea on the furthest back burner of my mind, where it would simmer without too much attention for almost a year.  And the notion didn’t really come off that back burner until just a few weeks ago, when I was up at the cottage for a few days with a friend, teaching him the basics of how to use a fly rod on the waters of Long Lake. 

       I’ve known Wayne Johnson for over a dozen years now.  We’ve spent many weekends together, along with other men involved in an organization called ‘Keryx Prison Ministries,’ doing volunteer work at one of our State’s Department of Corrections facilities.  Our friendship became even closer when, a couple of years ago, Wayne told me that he would really like to go fishing with me sometime, and maybe even learn how to use a fly rod like I was always talking about.  Well, it took a while, but earlier this spring we did just that.  While the fishing was lousy, the gills and bass not having come up into the shallows to bed yet, Wayne did make some very good progress in learning the basics of fly casting.  I doubt that he will need much more of my dubious instruction when we go up again later this summer and, hopefully, get some fish. 

       Anyway, getting back to the subject at hand, during one of our mealtime conversations at the cottage, Wayne brought up a fish dish that he had tried, and liked very much, while on a yearlong job assignment in England, Fish Pie.  Being an Anglophile, that rare American who actually appreciates traditional British cuisine, I was interested.  I’ve eaten a lot of fish & chips on my several trips to the British Isles over the years, but never a fish pie.  He told me that it was a lot like a shepherd’s pie, but with fish and a cream sauce in place of the red meat and gravy that is found in the traditional British meat pie.  I asked Wayne if he had the recipe, and, if so, would he send it to me?  He said, “yes,” on both counts. 

       I am currently in possession of the aforementioned document, which I now lay out for your perusal.  A few conversions have been made to translate British usages into American equivalents (Celsius to Fahrenheit, grams to ounces, that sort of thing) and I’ve substituted heavy whipping cream for double cream, which is a tad bit fattier than whipping cream, but also, sadly, unavailable here. 

Small boneless fish fillets       1 lb.

Spinach                                        2 handfuls

Potatoes                                       4 large

Onion                                            1

Carrot                                           1

Eggs                                               2

Heavy Whipping Cream          8 oz.

Cheese (sharp cheddar)          2 handfuls

Lemon                                           juice of 1

Dry mustard                                1 tsp

Parsley (flat)                               2 tbsps

Some olive oil

Other seasonings as desired

       Cut potatoes into chunks and boil for 2 minutes.  Add the eggs and boil for 8 minutes.  Put the spinach into a steamer and steam for 1 minute.  All this can be done in one pan.  Remove spinach, squeeze out the water and chop.  Shell eggs and cut into slices.  Mash potatoes. 

       Meanwhile, chop onion and carrot.  Fry both together in olive oil for 5 minutes.  Then add cream, mustard, lemon juice and parsley to onion and carrot, mix off the heat. 

       Lay out fish fillets in buttered casserole dish or large pie pan.  Top the fish with the cream mixture, egg slices, spinach, and most of the cheese.  Then layer on the mashed potatoes and rest of the cheese.  Bake in oven at 400 F for 25/30 minutes.

This is the basic recipe.  Variations can include different type of fish, or even shellfish, sweet and ordinary potatoes mixed, additional savory spices, etc.  The recipe above should serve 4/6 people.  If salad and sides are served it will be more than enough, as the pie is quite rich.

That is the recipe as I got it.  Now to try it out on some friends!  And here’s how it went. 

       My first victi,…. guinea p,…. dinner guests,… to try the new dish out on, were our good friends, Don and Tomi Jo.  Kathy and I have shared many meals together with Don and Tomi at one another’s homes over the last several years, and I knew I could count on them to be both gracious and honest in their assessment of the results of this experiment, as we have with a few of theirs. 

       As it turned out, the date we chose for the panfish pie feast developed into a very busy day for my sweetheart with her job at the community college.  An early afternoon call home let me know that she wouldn’t be home until right around the time we had told our guests that dinner would be served, 6:30 p.m.  I would be on my own in getting everything ready and on the table.  So be it!

       I had all the ingredients on hand and ready, and at 4:30 the prep work began.  Tater’s chopped and in the pot to boil.  Add the eggs and boil some more.  Steam that spinach.  Remove and chop drained spinach.  Take eggs and potatoes off the heat.  Chop and fry onion and carrot.  Add cream, mustard and lemon juice.  Butter dish and lay in fish.  Cover with creamed onion/carrot.  Hardboiled egg slices.  Lots of cheese.  Cover with potato. – DRAT! – I forgot the spinach!  To late now – toss spinach in the garbage.  Cover potatoes with a little more cheese and wait until six to pop it in the oven.  Whew!

       Kathy got home just about five minutes before the timer went off.  Tomi Jo and Don were soon there and ready to eat.  Grace is said and we dig in.

Comments and assessments:

ready for the table

       “Not too bad.”

       “Better than I thought it would be.”

       “The cream sauce in it really works.”

       “Good job, Mark.”

       “Would be better with the spinach in there, though.”

       “Yeah, I know.  That was my mistake.  Next time.”

       “Could use more spices too.”

       “All I put in was the dry mustard the recipe called for.  Some salt and pepper would help, wouldn’t it?”

       “Yeah, but I was thinking more like some Thyme.”

       “Or some Dill Weed.”

       “That’s it!  It needs Dill Weed!”

       “What about some curry powder or Cajun spice?”

       “For and English dish?  No way!  Dill weed is what it needs.”

       “That or a little Thyme,…. or both.”

       “Is it worth making again,… for Tracy, Nate and the kids,.. would they eat it?”

       “Oh, sure!... I think.”

       “Ok,”

       “I still like my pan-fried panfish better.”

       “Me too.”

      

Something to take home in your creel:

       It’s good to try new things.  And this really was a pretty good meal, if I do say so myself. Heated up leftovers for lunch the next day were even better.  English Panfish Pie will be made again in the Jarvie kitchen, and served to our guests who have expressed a desire to eat my catch in something other than a pan-fried condition.  As for Kathy and I,…. well,… we aren’t throwing out any boxes of McCormick’s Cracker Meal just yet! 

Heaven Is Like….

Something from the tackle box:

       Jesus then told them this story:  The kingdom of heaven is like what happened when a farmer scattered good seed in a field.  But while everyone was sleeping, an enemy came and scattered weed seeds in the field then left.

       When the plants came up and began to ripen, the farmer’s servants could see the weeds.  The servants came and asked, “Sir, didn’t you scatter good seed in your field?  Where did these weeds come from?” 

       “An enemy did this,” he replied. 

       His servants then asked, “Do you want us to go out and pull up the weeds?”

       “No!” he answered.  “You might also pull up the wheat.  Leave the weeds alone until harvest time.  Then I’ll tell my workers to gather the weeds and tie them up and burn them.  But I’ll have them store the wheat in my barn.” (Matthew 13:24-30 CEV)

       There once was an old trout fisherman named Mack.  A regular trout bum, actually.  Old Mac had spent a good portion of his life exploring the many trout stream and ponds in his neck of the woods, and he had enjoyed that habit more than he enjoyed anything else in his whole life, a life in which he had been blessed with many good things besides his opportunities for trout fishing. 

       But Mack was old now, lying in a hospice bed, hanging on through the last days of a long battle with congestive heart failure.  It was hard to breath.  It was hard to do anything.  Even just lying there and waiting for the end was hard.  Mack wished that the stream of friends and family, all there to make their last farewells, would stop.  He hated having to focus his attention on anything, or anyone, other than the one thing that gave him any peace at all, the mental image of a trout at the end of a tight line, flashing through the ripples of a rocky stream.  He had known no pleasure greater than this in his whole life, and saw no good reason to let go of it now for other, lesser, consolations.  

       If Mack had any regrets about life, the only one he could think of was the fact that he never gotten out West for a guided tour of the high country trout streams, to fish for the big rainbows like he saw the happy fishermen on the covers of the fly fishing magazines holding.  That trip had been his dream.  But other parts of life had made demands on his time and resources that had kept him from that apex of existence.  ‘Oh well,’ he thought to himself, ‘maybe there would be some recompense for that injustice in the afterlife.’  And that was just about the last thought to pass through old Mack’s mind before he drifted off into his final mortal slumber. 

       Old Mack woke up and opened his eyes to a bright blue sunlight filled sky.  The few clouds he saw were of the little puffy, cotton-ball, variety.  The kind of clouds that only serve to remind you how generally wonderful the weather is whenever they blot out the sun for a brief few seconds, every once in a while, just long enough so that you notice and don’t take the sunshine for granted. 

       Mack sat up when he noticed the sound of running water coming to his consciousness.  Bringing his line of vision down from straight up, the first thing he saw was the range of mountaintops, stretching out across the horizon in front of him, as far as he could see in either direction.  The second thing he saw was the beautiful high country stream, rolling and bubbling around a rock-strewn bend, right at his feet.  The banks of the stream held some spruce and poplar, here and there, but there was plenty of room to work a fly rod if just a little bit of care was taken for where the backside of your cast was going.  The birds were singing, the wildflowers were blooming, it was Mack’s idea of heaven on earth. 

       Mack stood up when he heard the rustling sound of someone, or something, approaching.  Coming towards him, down a footpath that paralleled the bend in the stream running before him, Mack saw a tall, slender, “rugged outdoorsman” looking type.  The man’s Bean boots, Levi jeans, Carhartt jacket, and wide-brimmed Filson hat all looked sharp, broken in, but clean and well cared for, just like the man.  In his right hand the man carried what looked to be a classic split-bamboo fly rod, all rigged up with line and leader wound on an elegant looking click-and-paw reel, the kind of tackle old Mack would have given his eyeteeth for, that is if money hadn’t been a more convenient option in his life. 

       When the man stopped before him Mack could see there was embroidery above the left breast pocket on the man’s jacket, a bright yellow star logo.  Above the star it read; Highest Country Guide Service.  Below the star, in smaller letters; guiding where you never thought you’d get to.

       Mack looked up into the man’s face and was struck with the thought that it might be about the handsomest man he’d ever seen, a man that seemed neither young nor old, but perfectly mature.  The nose, straight and perfectly proportioned.  The eyes, bright steel gray, full of sparkle.  The mouth, as it smiled at Mack, showed brilliant white teeth, perfectly aligned.  The man’s whole continence seemed to glow with competency and a sure confidence in his calling. 

       The man spoke, “You must be Mack.  I’ve been sent here for you.  My name is…. Well, my friends just call me, ‘Bub,’ ….. so I guess you can too.”

       Mack’s heart glowed with warmth at the revelation that this fellow,… guide,… or angel,… or… whatever,… that ‘Bub’ was here for him.

       “Here.  This is for you,” continued the guide, as he handed Mack the rig he’d been carrying.  “Special made, just for you.  It should serve you well for what we’ve got planned for you.” 

       “Well.  What can I say?” replied Mack, as he accepted the tackle and tested its flex.  “My, this is as nice as any rod I’ve ever owned.  Maybe even nicer!”

       “We know.”

       “Thank you very much.”

       “You are very welcome.  Now,… let me explain how all this is going to work.  There are,… I’m afraid,… some very strict conditions attached to your sojourn with us here in Highest country… You see,… there was some debate as to just where we ought to take you when we got your resume.… To be quite honest,… some of the guides in my line of work thought you should get something,… well,…. a bit less comfortable than what you see here.  But, being a kindred soul to your former lifestyle, I prevailed upon the Service to let me bring you here… to this wonderful place…. on provision… that you follow my guidance to the letter.  Should you fail to do so, you will be immediately transferred to that other place my colleagues had in mind.  A place… much, much hotter than the perfect spring weather this place provides,… if you know what I mean.”

       “Oh yes!  I can imagine it’s no fun at all to catch trout that are already overcooked before you even hook them,… eh!” replied Mack, as he chuckled knowingly.... and smiled nervously.  “You can be assured that I will do just as you say until proven worthy.” 

       “Good!  Now here’s how it works.  MY responsibility is to look for rising trout in the stream winding off before us.  Whenever I spot one, I will point it out to you.  Then,… YOUR responsibility will be to make a cast to that rise, each and every time that I point one out… The trout will take care of the rest on their own… That’s it.  Every rise I spot for you… you MUST cast to,… OR this leg of your expedition will be over… and you will not like the next river you will be escorted to… at all… Lava makes for such poor fishing in comparison to what we have here…. Understood?” 

       “Absolutely.  You call ‘em and I try to catch ‘em, each and every time.  No problem!”

       “Good.  Then let’s get started, shall we?”

       Mack followed his guide through the low grasses and wildflowers down to the bank of the mountain stream where they positioned themselves, Bub standing just off to Mack’s left, giving him plenty of room to work his fly rod.  It was only seconds before the angelic guide spotted his first rising fish.

       “Look there!  Just under that spruce bough overhanging the opposite bank by that large rock.  There he is again!  Make a cast to him.”

       It was a bit further than Mack thought he was capable of making a cast but, fearing to violate the agreement before he had even started, he pulled line off the reel, rolled it out, made a couple of false casts to get it all in the air, then shot it across the stream in a perfect cast to a spot just upstream of the rock and overhanging spruce bough.  The little dry fly landed gently on the water and started its short drift right towards the spot where the fish had been rising.  The instant it came beneath the branch the fly disappeared in a splash.  Mack set the hook.  The fish dashed to the left six feet and made a nice jump.  It then tore off to the right, for about twelve feet, and made another jump.  It then fought its way back to the rock and bough, where it gave up and let Mack haul him in without further resistance.

       The guide stepped into the stream, unhooked the fish and picked it up for his charge to admire.  “Nice catch, Mack.  Looks like this rainbow runs right about thirteen inches, I’d say.”  He laid the fish gently back in the water and it immediately took off upstream in search of more peaceful feeding conditions. 

       “WOW!  That was fun!  This is more than I could have ever hoped for!  And to think, all I have to do is keep catching the fish you spot.  This is wonderful.”

       “I’m glad you think so, Mack.  I do work hard for living, but it’s as much a joy to me as it is to you.  Oh look!  Same spot as before!  Right underneath that spruce branch!  Get ‘em!”

       Mack looked and saw the rise for himself.  Just as he had the first time, he made a perfect cast to a spot just upstream of the rise.  He watched as the fly took the course it had before, right underneath the tree, where it was taken just as before.  Again, the fish dashed to the left and jumped, ran off to the right and jumped, fought back to its hole beneath the spruce, where it surrendered and was brought in.

       “Nice fish, Mack.  Looks like this rainbow runs right about thirteen inches, I’d say…. Oh look!  Same spot as before!  Right underneath that spruce branch!  Get ‘em!”

        Once again, the scene played out just as it had the first two times, and then again, and then again.  Each fish hooked beneath the branch.  Each hooked fish making a dash to the left and then jumping.  Each fish running off to the right and jumping once more.  Each fish fighting its way back to the rock, where each fish petered out and let itself be hauled in, just as each fish had done before. 

       After the thirteenth time Mack had listened to his guide say, “Nice catch, Mack.  Looks like this rainbow runs right about thirteen inches, I’d say,” he interrupted before the next rise could be spotted beneath the spruce bough by the big rock.

       “Say, Bub,… I am glad that I’m here with you.  Especially so, considering how close you say I came to being sent to that other place.  I do appreciate it,… and this is nice and all,… lots of fish,… but I really had imagined that the fishing… here in heaven… would be,… well,… how do I put it,…. would be more… interesting… Not quite so predictable, and,.. to be quite frank,… not quite so monotonously boring. 

       The angelic guide put the thirteenth trout back in the water, pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and placed it between his lips.  He walked over to Mack, lit his smoke with a flame that shot out of the tip of his index finger, looked him in the eyes and said, “Now,… who in hell said anything… about this being heaven?” 

Something to take home in your creel:

       As a preacher, I’ve always liked stories about what the experience of dying and going to heaven, or even that other place, might be like.  Whether they are short jokes about stumping St. Peter with unexpected answers to his questions at the Pearly Gate, or longer allegorical stories, expressing deeper theological notions than getting a laugh from the notion of a new arrival who thinks that God’s name is ‘Andy.’ (“and he walks with me and he talks with me.”  Get it.)  I like them all, and many a good sermon illustration has come from the vast number of afterlife stories that are out there.  Silly or serious, pure imagination or scripture based, slightly heretical or ultra-orthodox, there are insights and lessons that can be gleaned from almost all of them, if one puts a thoughtful mind to the task. 

       The Christian tradition of telling allegorical stories about what getting into and experiencing the kingdom of heaven (or the agonies of hell) can be like, began with Jesus himself.  The Gospels contain a good number of them.  The Apostles set down more eternal life destination insights in several of the epistles and the book of Revelation.  In later centuries Bunyan would give us his ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ an allegory on getting there, and Dante his ‘Divine Comedy,’ an allegory about being there once you do get to wherever it is that you’re getting to.  One of my favorite books of the more recent past is C.S. Lewis’ ‘The Great Divorce.’  If you haven’t read it, you should.  As St. Paul writes, ‘If our hope in Christ is good only for this life, we are worse off than anyone else …… (1Corinthians 15:19 CEV)

       This little story of Mack and his guide, which I have offered you, is not my own.  It is merely my embellishment on an old chestnut of a tale, as story that has its roots sunk deep in storytelling history.  Versions of this story can be found which have used almost every human pursuit that can be loved more than God and neighbor, as the vehicle for its telling.  The version most often heard today tells of some poor fellow, pushed on by a fiendish caddy, doomed to the hell of hitting a hole-in-one on every link of a golf course that stretches on forever and ever. 

       Whatever version of the story is told, the lessons are always the same; Seek first the kingdom of God. Adopt His loving righteousness as your own standard of love.  Love the Lord with all your being.  Love your friends, family and neighbors, and even your enemies, as you love yourself.  Love them all even more than you love yourself when empowered by the Spirit of God to perform that miracle.  Do these things and you will be blessed by God with all the rest you could ever want, all given in due time, and all poured out in full measure, heaped up and overflowing.  For loving with that kind of love is just what the everlasting Kingdom of God consists of.