Ask Roscoe
Advice From God's America
Author’s Note: Media Room does not normally publish on Saturdays but it has been a cold, violent January and I thought a little humor might be welcome. Below is a selection from my rural advice column, “Ask Roscoe.” Be warned, it contains salty language.
Roscoe is not a licensed therapist, nor does he have a college degree. He went to junior college for a semester but decided he didn’t need to pay money to have some candyass teach him shit nobody cares about.
Dear Roscoe:
Got any good catfish recipes?
Signed, Walleye Wally
Dear Wally:
One time my stepbrother Cletus and me was driving his stepdaddy’s pickup down to Possum Hollar to get drunk when the Sheriff stopped us and started askin’ Cletus all these questions about did he have a license and was this here truck registered and insured?
Cletus just stared at him without sayin’ nothin’ cause he’d smoked about five bowlfuls of this skunkweed he was growin’ out by the old barn. That skunkweed always makes Cletus a little weird.
So the Sheriff starts yellin’ at Cletus, and Poot – Cletus’ smellhound Poot – started a barkin’ and a snarlin’. Then don’t you know Poot ran at the Sheriff and when the Sheriff went to grab his shotgun Cletus had to jump him to keep him from shootin’ Poot right there on the side of the road!
So now Cletus and the Sheriff was wrastlin’ over the shotgun and Poot was barkin’ and growlin’ and carrying on so I ran off into a cornpatch so as not to get shot when one of them came out of that pile with a bug up his ass and a loaded shotgun in his hand.
Then Poot started chasin’ me into that cornpatch! I was yellin’ Poot! It’s me Roscoe! Dammit Poot, quit knawin’ on mah leg! But Poot had this crazy look in his one good eye and he was growlin’ and barin’ his big yellow teeth.
‘Cept Poot’s missin’ one of them front canine teeth from Cletus kicking him when Poot dug up his skunkweed.
Anyway. Cletus had somehow got hold of the Sheriff’s shotgun and started shootin’ up in the air yellin’ something - I don’t know what the hell what.
Just then I heard sirens and Cletus came runnin’ through that cornpatch like he was being chased by the devil hisself. Poot followed Cletus and I followed Poot and we started haulin’ ass into the south woods of Possum Hollar. One of them Sheriff’s cars drove through the corn patch and tried to run us down!
But we made it into Possum Hollar and them Sheriffs must have known they wasn’t going to find Poot, Cletus and me seein’ as how we damn near grew up in them woods. They just towed Cletus’ stepdaddy’s truck and went back to town.
So Cletus and me whomped up a fishing pole with some shagbark and a mess of kudzu vine and pulled us five fat catfish out of Echo Lake. Cletus gutted ‘em with my pocketknife and cooked ‘em on a spit I made out of ash.
When you’re cookin’ up catfish you got to remember that they’re bottom feeders and can get greasy. So one advantage of cooking over indirect heat is a lot of excess fat drips off.
Trim any reddish fat and bring the flesh to about 150º. If you don’t have a meat thermometer – which me and Cletus did not – remember that catfish is fully cooked when it turns white.
If the meat flakes, the fish is becoming dry. When this started to happen to Cletus, Poot, and me, we basted the catfish with lake water which both added moisture and lowered the internal temperature, allowing the fish to cook more evenly.
Cletus picked some muscadines and huckleberries and I roasted some beechnuts, creating a bitter/sweet side dish which complemented the savory catfish. We soaked some hickory chips and threw them in the fire when it reached full strength, adding a welcome umami element to our improvised, littoral repast.
Anyway. Them Sheriffs didn’t arrest us when we got back to town. I guess they didn’t want it to come out that Cletus kicked their ass and took their shotgun. They did, however, beat the shit out of him one night he was walkin’ home from his job at the Gas N’ Go. They even knocked out one of his front teeth, so when he smiles he looks just like Poot.
Which is weird.
Signed, Roscoe.
Thanks for the laugh!