You are now aware of my nun fetish and my romantic notions of cloistered sisterhood; and have probably guessed that this goes hand-in-hand with a love of pre-Raphaelite painting and other idyllic relics from the days of yore. I can't help it, and furthermore, I won't apologize. No. We all have our vices.But back to the Fish Fry. What actually occurs at a fish fry? Who goes and why? I can only speak for myself, of course. I was convinced by the village nun, Sister Carol, who perhaps sensed that I was vulnerable to nunified coercion and easily dazzled by diminutive virgins. Christ brides have to be able to tap into that sort of thing.
And so I committed to the task on a Wednesday. I was in a good mood when the good sister called, and since I have never been able to see beyond the present, it never occurred to me that Friday would arrive and I would be expected to make good on a promise. A promise made is a debt unpaid, as Robert Service warned us.
On the Friday in question, my spirits soared. Jack Frost had dumped 15" of snow overnight, and the blizzard seemed to carry on and on with no sign of abatement. I eagerly called St. Mary's to find out if the fish fry had been canceled. I was informed that it had not been canceled, nor would it be. I would be required to go. I immediately fell into a depressed panic, followed closely by a period of manic denial, and then finally acceptance: What the hell, it's not like I'd be joining a cult. I mean would I be joining a cult? I reflected on this for some seconds before putting it out of my mind and playing with the cat.
Finally the appointed hour - 4:30 p.m. EST - arrived, and after excavating my car from its snowy entombment, I made my way the 1/4 mile to St. Mary's. Immediately I spotted the fish fry men and their showy frying apparatus. They seemed smug, so I gave them a wide berth. I walked into the rec-hall kitchen, and a number of people were assembled there. They all stopped talking and looked at me as I entered. I became shy about my dark sunglasses, Blackberry adhered to my left palm and heeled boots. This was the home-made sweater crowd and I looked out of place. Had I known this already and dressed this way on purpose...to draw ridicule and suspicon? I suspect the answer to that is yes. But I mustered my poise and aggression and informed the most senior looking spatula-wielding person in the room that Sister Carol had enlisted me. A general murmur ensued and Betty White informed me that I should report to Rita. She pointed me down a long corridor lined with industrial-sized cans of pepperoncinis and stewed tomatoes. I quick-stepped it down the hall (stopping only momentarily to gaze longingly at a 12lb can of tuna) and it was not long before I met Rita.
The name Rita brings to mind a spitfire of a sensual being hailing from Venezuela. I have no idea why. But my fish fry Rita was a different kettle of fish altogether. She was a strapping gal with bulging biceps and a severe buzz-coif that immediately caused an image of Paul Bunyan pop into my head. She was smiling in a way that suggested that she could reduce any man or woman in the place to a whimpering heap of shattered limbs in a heartbeat. I approached her slowly, admiring the way her powder blue acrylic sweater clung to her ponderous bosom. In true primate fashion, I smiled to demonstrate my lack of aggression, and then informed her that I was Sister Carol's dupe and at her disposal for the duration of the fish fry. She then favored me with a friendly blow to the back which loosened a lower molar crown, and led me to what I would come to think of as "our" pizza booth.
Rita had already laden the table with 9 pizza pies, an assortment of cafeteria lady gloves, spatula(s), and a little basket for the parishioners to deposit their fish fry entry tickets. She stood very close to me beaming and asking questions, and as we had no customers for quite some time, we had a great deal of time to get to know one another. One of her first disclosures to me was that she lived on a 200 acre farm with her husband, and had two grown children. I was stunned, to say the least. There was no evidence of estrogen radiating from this woman, and I could not believe she had been endowed with female reproductive organs. She waved to a little unassuming man across the room and said "There's my baby." It was her husband, and he gazed at her with unbridled adoration and submission from where he stood on the other side of the mossy green hall. And so it came to pass that we exchanged general information and life stories as an assortment of St. Mary's faithful queued for fish and slaw, and then sat in orderly rows to eat of its goodness. Every once in a while a small child, no doubt repelled by the look and sound of oil-drenched Perch, appealed to us for pizza, and we were only too happy to comply. I was in charge of placing each slice of pizza onto a little paper plate for our customers, and each time I did so, Rita rewarded me with a brilliant smile and a "Well done!"
And so it went and so it went as the night wore on. And at some point I became comfortable enough with Rita to ask: What is the deal with Sister Carol? Where does she live? Where are the others in her order... and questions of that ilk. Rita then looked me square in the eyes and said: Sister Carol lives here at the church, and she has a "Special Friend" who lives in Toledo and visits her every weekend. I longed to find out more about the special friend, but suddenly we were inundated with pizza requests and had to get to work. Alas, I never did find out about Sister Carol's special friend. But I do have a new friend in Rita, the strapping pizza dame I encountered at the annual St. Mary's Fish Fry during the Blizzard of 2010.
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