Fish Fry

This week, I will write about another Waschke family tradition: the Fish Fry. The Waschke Fish Fry was nothing like the hundreds and thousands of Fish Fries held all over North America. I’m not sure why the Waschke Fish Fries were even called by that name. They did involve fish, but the fish was always salmon slowly roasted over an open fire. The fish was never fried, never dipped in batter like fish and chips, and always a whole salmon.

I have been told that my great grandparents, Gottlieb and Bertha Waschke started the Waschke Fish Fry tradition. Gottlieb and Bertha had six daughters to marry off. One of our old neighbors told me that my great-grandparents hosted many large parties in search of suitable husbands for their daughters.

The generation that attended those parties is probably all gone now, but I remember occasionally running into folks who remembered my great grandparents’ parties when they heard my name was Waschke. Whether the Fish Fries were part of a scheme to marry off daughters, I do not know, but all my great aunts were married eventually, so it could be true.

But I also think my great grandparents, especially Gottlieb, liked a good big party. I think I have pictorial proof of this that I will bring out someday.

I mentioned in my last blog, Hog Butchering, that my grandpa, Gus, sometimes fed wheelbarrow loads of salmon to the pigs. From that, you might surmise that the Waschkes did not think much of salmon as food, but you would be utterly wrong. Salmon was a delicacy that rivalled my grandma Agnes’s cinnamon, raisin, and apple stuffed Christmas goose.

I don’t remember that my grandmother ever cooked salmon, except maybe in her spicy and vinegary fish soup. I once tried aalsuppe (eel soup) in a bierstube in Germany and I was shocked to discover that it tasted exactly like my grandmother’s fish soup, which she called “fisch stip.” I believe “stippen” is low German for “to dip”. I don’t quite understand Grandma’s name for the soup, but I loved it when she made it, although I also seem to recall that neither my grandpa Gus nor my dad liked it.

I had a similar surprise when I happened to read this excerpt from James G. Swann. The Northwest coast; or, Three years’ residence in Washington Territory. New York : Harper & Brothers, 1857. Pp. 108-109.

We did not wait till the fishing was over for our breakfast, but, when the sun got up high enough to shine clear above the peak of Mount St. Helen’s, old Brandy-wine [a white settler] called us up from the beach, and gave us a glorious repast of salmon, just out of the water, cooked in real Indian style by his Indian wife.

The choice part of a salmon with the Indians is the head, which is. stuck on a stick, and slowly roasted by the fire. The other part is cut into large, flat slices, with skewers stuck through to keep them spread; then, placed in a split stick, as a palm-leaf fan is placed in its handle, with the ends of this stick or handle projecting far enough beyond the fish to be tied with a wisp of beach grass to secure the whole, this stick is thrust in the sand firmly and at the right distance from the fire, so that the fish can roast without scorching. Clam-shells are placed underneath to catch the oil, which will run from these rich, fat salmon almost in a stream. Neither pepper, salt, nor butter were allowed during this culinary operation, nor did I find they were needed; the delicate and delicious flavor would have been spoiled by the addition of either.

I was so much pleased with this style of cooking salmon that I never wish to have it cooked in any other form, either boiled and served with melted butter, or fried with salt pork, or baked with spices. The simpler a fat salmon can be cooked, the better; it retains its flavor with perfection, and is more easily digested; and the only style is to roast it before an open fire.

Son of a gun. Swann’s (or Brandywine’s wife’s) recipe for Fish Fry salmon and the Waschke family recipe for Fish Fry Salmon were the same.

The Fish Fries in my memory were presided over by my uncle Arnold. His method was almost identical to Brandywine’s wife’s recipe moved forward a century in time.

My uncle began by starting a wood fire and topping it with green vine maple logs. He fastened the salmon to chicken wire netting with wires in a steel angle iron frame rather than sticks and suspended the rack over his fire. The salmon roasted slowly in the vine maple smoke. Vine maple sap and wood is sweet and gives salmon a unique flavor. Ivar’s Salmon House on Lake Union in Seattle is not the place it was when Ivar was still alive, but it made alder smoked salmon famous. However, for me, alder is a poor substitute for vine maple. I think my uncle would differ with Swann on seasoning: he used brown sugar on his salmon, but he would have agreed with Swann that the point of seasoning salmon is to taste the salmon, not the seasoning.

In the old days, according to my dad, Fish Fries often were inspired by the arrival of a member of the Lummi tribe with salmon. Later, we would get the salmon from fishermen off the dock in Bellingham or Blaine or a fishing neighbor would drop off a salmon. Still later, we bought it from one of the fish markets.

I often think that there must be a link between Waschke Fish Fries and the Salish potlatch tradition. The classic anthropological discussion of the potlatch tradition is found in Marcel Mauss’s book The Gift. Claude Levi Strauss also studied and wrote about Salish nations.

I know that in the fifties, my grandparents had occasional visitors from the tribe, sometimes bearing salmon, and, of course, I mentioned before that my father was delivered by a Lummi mid-wife. I also know that Grandpa traded potatoes and other produce with the Lummi. Exactly how the salmon tradition made the jump from the Lummi tribe to the tribe of Waschke Germanic interlopers, I don’t know, but I do know that the salmon at a Waschke Fish Fry and at the Lummi Stommish would be hard to distinguish in a blind fold test. And I have searched for German roasted salmon recipes that might have inspired Waschke Fish Fry and have found nothing. The most important similarity is the intent: the essence of potlatch is generosity and reciprocity among friends and neighbors. This was the spirit of the Waschke Fish Fry. The more partakers, the better.

Christmas 2017

2017 has been a year of ugly politics, grotesque politicians, collapsing heroes, sobering international affairs, and natural disasters. I, and a lot of others, don’t expect to be nostalgic for 2017 in years ahead. I started to write this as a catalog of woes, but I’ll leave that job to someone else, someone plagued with enough schadenfreude to enjoy the task.

Instead, I declare my love for Christmas. During the month of December, I listen to classical Christmas music constantly. I hum Christmas hymns while my Border Collie, Albert, takes me out walking. I get teary over old Christmas movies and nostalgically remember school Christmas programs from 60 years ago. When I was six, I held a vine maple crook made for me by my grandfather and wore a red flannel bathrobe with cowboys on it, playing a shepherd in a nativity tableau.

Today, I reread my favorite Nero Wolfe mystery, “The Christmas Party,” to warm up for the holiday. Wolfe poses as Santa tending bar to spy on Archie and is forced to solve a murder in order to prevent being found out. I don’t fully understand Rex Stout’s attitude toward women, sexuality, and race expressed in the story because I am not sure what is humor and what is over-earnest opinion, but I smiled as I read it. The story suggests to me Wodehouse with a sharp edge.

This is a remarkable Christmas for the Whatcom County Public Library System, of which I am an enthusiastic trustee. I must bore people by now when I tell them I got my first library card over sixty years ago from the county library bookmobile parked in front of North Bellingham Elementary School. I don’t recall the name of the first book I checked out. It had a gray cover and yellow ducks inside. I didn’t like it much, but it started something.

Two years ago, the library adopted a simple five-year strategy and goal: get people to read more. We chose increasing circulation by 10% as a metric. The December numbers are not complete, but it looks like we may meet our five-year goal in just two years. The staff has been working hard. They trained everyone from pages to trustees in better ways to encourage readers to find books they enjoy. We undertook a marketing campaign that has won national awards.

We have a new library under construction that is financed largely from public donations rather than taxes and another new branch in early planning. Most importantly, when I wander through our nine branch libraries I see children, teens, and adults with their heads buried in books absorbing the wonders of culture and knowledge that libraries have housed for centuries.

An impressive Christmas for a rural county library system stuck in the farthest northwest corner of the continental US and over half taken up by  mountainous state and federal forests, a national park, and wilderness.

There are other reasons for joy in this season. Since last December, the women’s advocacy organization, Emily’s List, has heard from 16,000 women interested in running for office. That is over ten times the number that inquired in 2015 and 2016 combined. And it’s not just women. And not only Democrats. All over the country, business people, veterans, professionals of all genders are planning to run for office for the first time, for high-profile federal offices as well as city and county councils, state legislatures, every kind of office. I foresee an overwhelming change in the country’s governance that will be felt for decades. The day of the professional politician is ending, disempowered by the digital disruption of politics and replaced by digitally informed citizens. What will that be like? I hope to see it soon.

Peace and Joy to everyone.

Telescopic Adventure

The sky was clear with only a few clouds, but an icy ground fog rose to form a haze. Not a good night for viewing. Only a few stars twinkled in the black sky, but those few were enough to try out a Christmas telescope.

Twin astronomers, 2009
Twin astronomers, 2009

Instead of packing the telescope out to the dark fields where the nearest Christmas-light decorated house is a quarter mile away, tired Grandpa, who did not stint on the Christmas turkey with sausage-cornbread stuffing, stayed on the deck where a mercury yard light shines on the farmyard from dusk to dawn, justifying himself that this is only a trial run. Unsure of himself on new equipment, he fusses with false starts before he settles on a location for the telescope. Light bucket, he calls it, although its four and a half inch aperture hardly justifies the title.

Grandpa aims the scope at good old Aldebaran, at least what he thinks is Aldebaran, the only star he can see in the limited sky from the deck. He gets it in view, a pinpoint of light somewhat brighter in the scope than he sees it with his naked eye. He calls the seven-year-old twins, who are working on a lifetime alliance with the Mario Brothers to save the princess. The pinpoint of light is not much to look at, but Grandpa aimed the scope, and that is the something, he guesses. The boys come out into the cold, but in their heads they are still kicking koombas.

Matthew arrives first. He grabs the eyepiece, jostling the scope enough that Aldebaran is out of view.

“Grandpa, I don’t see anything.” he said and started to wipe the eyepiece with a finger sticky with Christmas candy.

Grandpa, who was taught to shed blood before damaging a tool, grabs the grubby and abrasive finger hurling toward a multi-coated lens in a reaction that skipped his cerebral cortex.

“NO. Never touch the lenses. Not the eyepiece, not the spotting scope, don’t touch any lenses.” Grandpa’s voice is straight from the reptile brain fueled by fatigue and frustration of a long day with festive relatives. He regrets his words as he hears them.

Matty, who was up before dawn and has been over-excited ever since, starts to cry. He is not used to Grandpa, who is impatient and demanding, unlike mothers and grandmothers.

Grandpa assures Matty that he is not mad at him, but equipment must always be treated carefully. Grandpa walks the thin line between comforting a scared and tired little boy and being clear that Grandpa will be just as gruff next time. Matty’s brother Chris watches and listens carefully.

Mother and Grandmother appear, glaring at Grandpa, and spirit the boys inside.

Grandpa looks in the eyepiece, adjusts the direction a little and realizes that the lenses have fogged in the cold. Viewing will have to wait for the lenses to cool and the condensation to dissipate. The boys have returned to saving the princess and Grandpa has a moment to mull over his growing despondency.

He walks around the farmyard, behind the old pig yard, giving the lenses time to clear. The grass is crusty with a heavy frost and he stumbles over the frozen ground. He walks out to the field, taking in the full view of the sky without the mercury light and the trees that surround the farmyard. Looking up, the gibbous moon shines in the cold and he realizes that Aldebaran was a bad choice.

He returns to the deck, his fingers stiff and his arthritic knees aching with cold, but he swivels the scope around and aims it at the moon. He fiddles with the direction, the finder scope is not adjusted perfectly, and twists the focus. He gasps slightly. There on the line between lunar day and night, the crater Copernicus jumps out, stark and craggy. He has never looked through a telescope like this before, never seen Copernicus as a stark crater on the moon in the farm’s sky. Suddenly, he possesses the surface of the moon in the way he owned the mountains he once hiked.

He calls the boys out. Carefully, very carefully, they look through eyepiece. “Awesome Grandpa. Awesome,” Chris says. “That’s really cool,” says Matty, and they each spend their minutes looking, then they return to the crusade to save the princess, shouting “The moon is Awesome.” … “I love telescopes.” … “Next time, we’ll see Betelgeuse, right Grandpa?”