How Tastes Change…Or At Least Mine

Growing up in Minnesota, when we went fishing, there had to be a needle nose pliers and / or cat1a scissors in our tackle boxes………in case somebody hooked the dreaded catfish, which we didn’t even regard as good enough to be cut up into bait….just something icky to get away from as soon as possible.   Fast forward a couple decades, I’m living in Davenport, Iowa,  where there is not one, but MULTIPLES of catfish restaurants, and people in Iowa argue about which is the best, much like Louisianans will argue over hot sauce.

We invariably ended up at a place called “Kernan’s”, on the Mississippi River, which offered two deep-fried WHOLE catfish as their standard entree (and deep-fried dill pickles on the side!).    Fast forward another couple decades, I was living in Louisiana, and catfish, which I now adore, is available everywhere.

Then the domicile becomes Oregon.   Catfish are few and far between, tho I have had excellent filets @ one restaurant, and today……..my friends…..today I got to cook some at home, all for myself.  My better 2/3 doesn’t think they are worthy of consumption, and that’s fine with me.

So “catfish dogs” it was, complete with mayo/chive/herb dressing.

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