Sundays at Casa del Jen are Fishin' Days. I'm a very feminine girly-girl, but damn I like me some fishin'. So, last weekend, I ask myself... Sunday? Check. Nice weather? Check. Nothing to do? Check again. It looks like a perfect day for fishing. In a brief fit of stupidity, I call my sister and invite her and her son to go with me. Great, she says. Come on down, I know of a Great Pond to fish. Lots of big catfish, not many people. Sounds good. I arrive, and she decides to stop by one of the pizza shops she owns in town to snag some dinner. I'm going there to fish, not to eat, but hey - whatever works, you know? She grabs some candy, sodas, chips, and some chicken wings at her shop, and we're off. We are all set for some good old redneck fishin'. All we need is some Milwaukee's Best and Copenhagen. Her Great Pond, as it turns out, is a stocked pond that you have to PAY to fish. My inner Orlando Wilson is crying out that this sucks, but I placate him with the promise that a pay to fish pond must surely be stocked with some big ol' fish. I dutifully pay my $7 and trudge toward the fishin' hole. To provide a little backstory, my sister fishes like a girl. As another human of the female persuasion, I feel that I can say this with no fear of recrimination. She won't bait her own hook (worms are "slimy"), and God forbid she actually catch a fish. At the first sign of a nibble (which is when her bobber twitches even slightly), she will shriek and yank her pole while insisting, "That's how you set the hook." If "setting the hook" is defined as yanking your line so damn hard that your soggy worm-laden hook comes flying out of the water and snags in your sister's hair, then she's one hell of a hook-setter. Once in a while, I've seen her actually "set the hook" and catch a fish this way, yanking so hard that some hapless bluegill comes whipping out of the water toward us at Mach 3. On the occasions that this happens, she will invariably squeal, drop her pole and begin her Fish Dance - prancing in place while howling, "Get it Jenni, get it." (I hate that she calls me Jenni, but that's nearly its own rant, so I'll leave it for another time.) That is my cue to pick up her pole, remove the fish from her line and release it back to the water.
Anyway, my sister was in fine form that day. I forgot to mention that her pole whipping "set the hook" rountine usually causes the worm to come off her hook, so I spend a large portion of my time re-worming her hook. Fishing with my sister and her son involves very little real fishing on my part. What usually happens is that I bait their hooks about four times before I can even get down to deciding what lure to use. Last Sunday was no exception.
I realize that I'm not going to get any real fishing done, so I decide to experiment. What types of non-bait foods can be used to catch a fish? Experiment #1 - gummy worms. I mean, it looks like a worm, right? What's not to like? No dice. Not even an experimental nibble. I reel in my line and move on to Experiment #2 - Riesen. I hope chocolate isn't harmful to fish. They don't fall for that either. Bubble gum? Experiment #3 also fails. My gaze falls upon the box of chicken wings. Hmmm. They're meat. Fish eat worms. Worms are sort of like meat. Let's give it a go. I peel off a small bit of wing meat and bait my hook. Bingo! I don't know if it's the chicken or my sister's secret wing sauce, but the fish are going crazy. I reel in two in rapid succession.
Realizing I'm on to something, I grab a Mustad double live bait hook (looks like a safety pin with hooks on the end) and slide on a whole chicken wing. Load on some split shot for weight, and I'm set. I'm gunning for the big fish now. I cast my line far out into the pond, musing that chickens aren't flightless birds after all. As it plops into the water, I settle in to continue my experiment. Five minutes go by. Nothing. I become distracted by baiting my sister's hook for the millionth time. As I'm finishing up, my sister begins her Fish Dance again. Perplexed, I look up to see my pole inching its way toward the water. I lunge at the pole, catching it just in time. Something has taken the chicken wing.
The fight begins. I'm trying my best to reel, but I'm losing ground. My pole is bent nearly in half, and I'm getting pulled toward the water. I'm also drawing a crowd. Nothing like toothless, redneck old men offering their opinions in between spitting tobacco on the ground. "Cut the line," one offers. "Nah, give 'er to me, I'll reel 'er in," chimes his beer toting pal. My inner Oralndo Wilson is dancing a jig with my inner Walt Reynolds. Why I've got two pro fisherman cavorting about inside my mind, I have never questioned. They're just there, and I pacify them with fishin' every now and again. But I digress. At this point, everyone within earshot has stopped fishing, and is heading my way. My sister is performing the most frenzied Fish Dance I've ever seen, and shrieking like a harpy.
The fish breaks the surface of the water. My legs turn to jelly. I'm not sure, but I think I pee myself a little bit too. Oh dear sweet Jesus, this son of a bitch has a head as big as mine. I've hooked the Loch Ness Monster. Okay, it's just a catfish, but I'm scared now. I continue reeling, the old men on the bank whooping with excitement. Ed (that's what I named the catfish - I name things, so sue me) puts up an admirable fight, but in the end resigns himself to the inevitable. My muscles straining, I haul Ed toward the bank, and one of the onlookers leans in with a net and we drag Ed ashore. The pond's proprieter arrives with a scale and a Polaroid camera. I've caught the pond record. Ed weighs 30 pounds, and is 32 inches long. They take my photo, Ed is released back to the water, and the rednecks grumble about a girl catching the record. When they ask me what I used as bait, I just smile and tell them it's a family secret.
So if you ever go to Long's Pay to Fish pond in Carlwick, Ohio, look at the wall of photos. Somewhere on there is a picture of a tall, blond girly-girl, her nicely manicured hands covered in mud, her expensively highlighted hair in disarray, holding the biggest damn catfish you ever did see. That'd be me. True story. Well, parts of it, anyway.
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