Every summer, at the borrowed family cabin, my father routinely took his three oldest children fishing while my mother tended the youngest two. Tough duty for both. He baited countless hooks and removed dozens of teeny sunfish from our poles. Eventually, the small Wisconsin lake yielded enough properly-sized perch for a midday fry.
Seasoned, breaded fillets sizzled in a cast-iron skillet set over a camp stove. (No indoor fish cooking, said Mom.) She sliced garden tomatoes and tossed together a crunchy coleslaw. We kids never helped, opting instead to toss the paper plates about like Frisbees.
