The first thing I did on the car ride home was roll down the windows — not for that refreshing breeze that topped off a beautiful day with my grandparents, but to make sure my clothes wouldn’t smell like fish and onions.
Every Friday evening growing up, my family and I would pull up at my grandparents' house on Maple Avenue in Hillside. Somedays I would pretend like I didn’t know what we were having for dinner, only for a flash flood of excitement to be reignited when I found out it was fish.
Fried fish.
The dinner spread always included fried fish, rice, cabbage, and a salad with cucumbers, tomatoes and onions fresh from the garden. In the center, possibly the second star of the show, was hot sauce. To complement the meal, my grandmother’s homemade iced tea.
But waiting for that meal was half the fun.
Record reporter Shaylah Brown shares her family tradition of fried fish Fridays
The Record reporter Shaylah Brown reminisces on her family tradition of "Fried Fish Fridays," at her grandparents' house.
Amy Newman, NorthJersey
On Friday afternoons, after we arrived, my grandfather would leave for the fish market and my sister and I would finally be able to watch some television after a week of focusing on school "with no distractions," as my mom put it. But instead of gorging ourselves with cartoons, we’d usually end up playing “Go Fish” with Grandma.
There was always an after-school hunger that nagged at me, but a snack had to be something that wouldn’t outshine and spoil my dinner. Grandma and Grandaddy’s snack basket never disappointed.
I had grown up gardening with my grandparents: one side of the backyard was dedicated to my grandmother’s plants, and the other side, in front of the garage with a basketball hoop attached, was my grandfather’s vegetable garden.
I was my granddaddy’s “Assistant Gardener.” I helped him grow perfectly round and juicy red tomatoes. On top of this already prestigious title, I am “Grandbaby No. 1.”
When my dad and uncles were playing basketball, there was always the chance for the ball to bounce its way over to the garden. I was the would-be goalkeeper, intervening before any real damage could be done.
If I stood on top of the bright red porch and looked down, I could immediately see that all our hard work was not in vain. The vegetable garden was sprawling with tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots and cabbage.
For a snack, I'd sometimes settle on a bright orange peach, with flecks of yellow so sweet. Or an old-time classic: crackers and peanut butter. The peanut butter sat on the highest shelf in the kitchen. That snack took commitment because I’d need to get the step stool that would prop me up a few extra feet.
All snacks needed to be eaten in the kitchen. If I even had the slightest thought of stepping outside the kitchen without washing my hands before entering any other room, my grandmother could sense it.
“Shaylah, did you wash your hands?”
“Yes, Grandma.”
After a snack, I would often go down to the basement, tug on the metal string that turned on the bulb over the laundry room, and hop on my grandmother’s old beige and brown exercise bike.
I went as fast as I could. No matter how fast I went, or how much the bike rattled and creaked, it remained in the same spot.
Then, unamused by the nonmoving bicycle, I’d find something else. I often ended up in my favorite part of the house: the bathroom. I was enchanted with the bright fuchsia walls, the Hollywood-style vanity and my grandmother’s perfumes.
I’d dance in the mirror, prance around and come up with silly hairstyles. When I was about 12, I remember grooving to Meli’sa Morgan’s "Fool’s Paradise," courtesy of the cookout taking place next door. This was my sanctuary, my safe familiar place.
And then I would hear the heavy front door slowly open and close. My grandfather was back from the seafood market.
The time had arrived! I would descend from the bathroom in unapologetic haste. I had a job to do: I was the sous-chef, and I knew my taste-testing abilities would be highly sought after in moments.
My grandfather would often be singing his favorite tune, Dean Martin's "Everybody Loves Somebody," in his low baritone: “Everybody loves somebody some time." (To this day that is the only part of the song I know.)
My grandfather is still the best cook. He tells stories of his time serving in the Army during the Korean War, when he cooked for the people on his base.
On a typical Friday night we would get out all the ingredients: the fish, the eggs, the flour. After washing up, he would take the fish, douse it in the egg wash, dunk it in the flour, and flip it back and forth. In a large deep skillet on top of the stove, the oil would be heating.
My eyes would scurry back and forth. We were in the first quarter. The fish would be coated, the pan would be heated. My anticipation would rise ... and then ... Score! Into the pan, with the rewarding sound of shhhh and then pops. And that most enticing aroma — a smell that could only be created from fresh, hand-battered whitings hitting the grease of a hot pan. When the first piece was golden brown and crisp, he would take it out and lay it on the plate to cool.
“Aye Shaylah try this,” he would say. This was my granddaddy’s invitation to pre-sample any of his cooking — and he would not let anyone turn him down.
I’d often get the first piece on a small saucer plate that was decorated with floral trim. I knew I should have let the fish cool more, but I couldn’t help it. My eyes would eat before my mouth did. It was always too hot, but I took the risk anyway.
My dad seemed always to arrive from work just in time for dinner. We all would sit around the table: my parents, my grandparents and siblings.
Saying grace was always the last thing between cooking and eating. Sometimes I’d be asked to say it. After our "Amens," it would be on.
Often, my aunts, uncles and cousins would stop by. The doorbell would ring, or on summer days my grandmother would leave the door to the porch propped open. I could see them ascending the steps if I were sitting on the right side of the table.
There always seemed to be enough food. Friday nights wouldn’t end until midnight. There would be laughing, talking, telling stories about the week. Goodnights would take place at least six times before we actually left. And goodnights would only be "see you later" because we would gather again Sunday after church.
I used to wonder if the fish fry was just something my family did.
It's an old tradition, I learned.
Inherited and passed down from my great-great-grandmother, who would buy fish every Friday from the fish man who came around on horse and wagon, my grandmother said. She'd pair the fish with potatoes and cornbread.
Now the family still comes together, but the tradition has slightly evolved amid the pandemic. And instead of whitings, sometimes salmon or tilapia is served.
But the main ingredients remain intact: family and love.
And on the way home, I still roll down the windows.
Shaylah Brown is a local reporter for NorthJersey.com. Email: browns@northjersey.com Twitter: @shaylah_brown
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