Ain’t nothing worse than bad fish at a fish fry. Especially when you’ve already spent your last five dollars buying a ticket for the good of the marching band. Social Security doesn’t stretch all that far to be buying fundraiser tickets. There ain’t even that many ways you can mess up fried fish, ‘sides burning it. Just add some more cornmeal and flour to the breading and that’ll fix whatever mess you made.

Cecily ate the two little boiled potatoes and string beans that came in the take-out box and pushed the rest of her inedible fish aside. As soon as she finished her yeast roll she was going down to the fryer to see who was cooking this year.

The Kiwanis Club was selling barbecue pork plates at the same time. Why hadn’t she bought one of their tickets instead? You can’t ever get enough pork barbecue—the kind they make in Carolina, anyway. But, the marching band had the same uniforms since ’75. The football team had gotten five new uniforms since then. Come to think of it, so had the basketball team…if not more. It was downright embarrassing to see them out on the field, if you ever cared enough to stay in your seat during half time. All those expensive instruments they carried and yet every single child had safety pins holding their too-short trousers up. Kids are taller these days, you know.

Should have known Joe Parker was frying. He couldn’t boil water at home, but anything that had to do with outdoor cooking he wanted complete control of.

“Joe, you’ve mangled the fish,” Cecily said in a too-loud voice. He laughed so hard that he had a fit of coughing. “Whatcha mean, woman? This is quality eatin’ here.”

“It’s a quality waste, you mean. Count the plates in the trash, Joe. Your fish is still in ‘em.”

Joe got serious. “You think you could do better? I’m the designated fish fryer, and been frying every year since ’82.”

“That’s ‘cause folks didn’t want to hurt your feelings. Since ’82, whew! That’s why those poor kids look like they do. You got a son out there. Ain’t you embarrassed?”

“Not in one bit. That boy sure can play, that’s why I’m here fryin’ fish to support him. So you can just get on back to whatever it was that you were doin’ before you came intruding over here. I got a busybody at home to deal with and don’t want nothin’ with you.” People standing around suddenly got quiet and stopped what they were doing to listen.

“God don’t like ugly, Joe, but I tell you what. I may be a busybody, and I may have a big mouth, too, but at least my cakes don’t end up in the trash at the church picnic.” A bystander, just happening to be a member of the Methodist church and thrower-away of Joe’s grilled and fried picnic concoctions, muttered “Uh oh,” and braced himself for a confrontation.

Joe simply tore his paper apron off, slammed his fork down on the table and marched off, probably to complain to the Band Boosters. Cecily, unfazed, set down her purse and threw out what was left of the fried fish to start a new batch. She seasoned the cornmeal, and the fish too, with something she kept in a baggie in her purse (She carried it everywhere—folks are too scared to season food anymore, and then they expect you to eat it. She carried her own just in case). “A bag of love,” she explained to the confused potato and string bean volunteers with a wink.

The smell of the heavenly breaded fish wafted across the campus and soon folks were forming a line at the tent. When the first piece turned golden brown, she tasted it herself first, and judging it adequate, started loading plates. Soon word-of-mouth brought people back to buy second plates even after they had thrown out the first.

By the day’s end, Joe’s cooking had actually doubled the expected sales. People claimed that although they had to pay twice, Cecily’s fish had been worth the extra five dollars. The Band Boosters wanted to thank her for putting the uniform fund over the top, but after the last piece of fish had been fried, Cecily picked up her purse and walked home carrying a plate.

Cecily didn’t think it was anything special. She sat down at the kitchen table with a piece of blueberry cobbler and glass of sweet tea, and watched the news on her small black and white television just as she did every Saturday evening. When the pep band came by and played the school song on her front lawn, she sat in her swing and tapped her foot to the blue and gold’s music. She thought of how good they would look in their new uniforms, and all because of a little salt.