I love fishing. Growing up, my family went camping almost every other weekend and if that is an exaggeration from the memories of a child, it isn’t much of one. Of all of the fishing adventures I have been on, some of my fondest memories are of sitting on a quiet lake backwater and catching dozens of bluegills. My dad taught me how to take a tiny hook and break off the smallest piece of shrimp possible, and put it on a hook. If you put a big piece on they would just steal it most of the time. The key was to put a tiny piece of bait on a hook. That way they couldn’t help but suck in the sharp end of the hook along with the bait.
I was very proud of the fact I learned to fish by myself at a very young age. I remember sitting on the bank with my cousins and brothers catching them one after another, putting the big ones on a stringer and throwing the small ones back. After hours of tirelessly catching fish I would take my prize stringer full to my dad who patiently helped me filet them with an expert hand. He would fire up an iron skillet of grease, dip the tiny pieces of meat in egg and corn meal and drop them into the pan. There is something so basic about eating a meal you caught yourself. But later I learned to put them back to catch another day, and that is gratifying, too.
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