Holy catfish, batman!

WO and I made a catfish dinner on Sunday night that is very much worth posting and spreading. We got it from a Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, which is, honestly, one of the coolest cookbooks ever. It’s a real cookbook that includes descriptions of pots and utensils and meat cuts and vegetables, which is necessary for folks like me that didn’t eat a lot of meat or use funky utensils as a child.

Anyway, this catfish is amazing.

  • 1 lb fresh or frozen catfish filets
  • 1 beaten egg
  • 3 tablespoons Dijon mustard
  • 1 tablespoon milk
  • 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
  • 1/4 cup flour
  • 1 cup coarsely crushed pretzels
  • 2 tablespoons cooking oil
Preparation and cooking
  1. Thaw, rinse, and pat dry the fish.
  2. In a shallow dish, combine the egg, mustard, milk, and pepper. Whisk until smooth
  3. Put the flour in another shallow dish.
  4. In a third dish, place the pretzels.
  5. Coat both sides of the fish with flour. Dip in mustard mixture. Coat with pretzels.
  6. Cook in hot oil over medium heat for 3 to 4 minutes per side (or until golden).

Add tartar sauce if that’s your thing, and… Oh, man, it’s amazing. I haven’t had catfish that good since I was a kid.

A “drinking” game

This really shouldn’t involve any alcohol. I prefer cranberry juice, although pink lemonade would work great, too.

Line up several episodes of Star Trek: DS9. Ten or so. Get together a lot of one of the above juices and several friends.

Take sips when:
  • There’s an “ethnic moment”: like when Ensign Muñiz dies in “The Ship” and is all like, “Si, jefe. Si, papi!” Or when Worf says things like, “Honor! Honor… Klingon…Honor!” Sip for the duration of the “moment”. Small sips are best. Very small sips.
  • Someone indignantly says, “Quark!” This does not include Bashir. (For reasons you’ll see later.) This does include the Grand Nagus (bwua-ha-ha).
  • Someone is specist. This involves sneers of “Ferengi!” or any scene involving O’Brien.
  • Sisko slows down the end of a sentence. “I do love a game… of… baseball…”
  • Odo totally spazzes out.
Finish the glass when:
  • Bashir yells, “Quark!!” in that wonderfullly indignant and British manner.

Strange duality

When I was a kid, I was always plagued with questions about my hair. Conversations in elementary school tended to run something like this:

Girl: Why do you always wear you hair in little pigtails? You should wear it down.

Me: But my hair’s too thick.

Girl: (scoff) My hair’s thick, too, and I wear it down. And look at Chelsea over there. She’s black and she wears her hair down.

Me: But your hair’s thinner than mine and Chelsea’s hair is 3 inches long and looks like she stuck her finger in an electric socket. My daddy says straightening your hair like that [with a hot comb] isn’t healthy.

Girl: Hmph. My hair’s not thin.

Of course, the girl I was talking to was inevitably an Uma Thurman-look-alike in terms of hair. You know, one of those ladies who works to have body and volume. (Who I don’t envy.)

I remember when I started plaiting my hair up in middle school, I felt this secret private pride that finally I could wear my hair more like “everyone else”. It dangled; it could be pinned up or let down. Folks still tugged on my hair, but they stopped asking me as much why I didn’t wear it out. All that remained were the never-ending swimming pool questions. *grin*

When I plaited my hair up a couple of weeks ago for the first time in years, I felt this strange duality. I didn’t feel that same satisfaction as I had when I was younger. In fact, I didn’t even remember that I’d felt that way until I finished plaiting it up. I like the style, and I like its low maintenance qualities, but it has nothing to do with being like “everyone else” anymore.

It was a very weird sensation–like I was of two minds, expecting an emotion that wasn’t there because it was an old habit, and yet unsure as to why I was expecting it.

If that makes any sense at all.