The annual Svitak fish fry was the spotlight of my summer season as a baby. After my father introduced home the fish, the work fell to my mother, who dipped walleye and northerly pike into the eggwash and overwhelmed cornflakes. The oil within the deep fryer crackled as she dropped within the fillets, her face flushed from the warmth. Once cooked, the fillets had been sprinkled with satisfactory salt to give a doctor a coronary heart attack, earlier than my mom served them with lemon wedges and a big smile.
It turned into the most appropriate meal of the 12 months.
The pan-fried sunnies and crappies had been mighty pleasant, too, after we had spent an occasional afternoon on the water, but nothing beat these deep-fried fillets dredged in Kellogg’s crumbs.
