Breaded Flounder

Easter. Sugar, Resurrection Sunday is the biggest service of the year and the biggest cooking day of the year next to Christmas. Calvin preached and the choir sang every verse of every hymn and the church was full and people stood. The fellowship hall after service held three hundred plates. I cooked Saturday into Sunday morning. The lamb was lamb (I do not normally cook lamb but Easter is Easter). The mac and cheese, the greens, the rolls, the pies. The family ate at home Sunday evening — I sat down for the first time at six PM and Calvin laughed at me because I sat down so hard.

Calvin preached Sunday on Job's patience. The church said amen. I talked to Marcus this morning at the kitchen window with my coffee. I told him the kitchen was holding. He did not answer in words. He does not need to.

Fried chicken Saturday. Buttermilk overnight with hot sauce. Seasoned flour. The cast iron at three-fifty. Skin crisp. Meat juicy. Bernice's recipe. The chain holds.

CJ called from Huntsville. The grandchildren — Caleb (1), Naomi — are well. Shanice sends her love. Destiny came for Sunday dinner. She talked about her work. The work is hard. She is good at hard work.

Calvin in the recliner. Me at the stove. The week held.

I have been thinking about heaven a lot lately. I do not know what I think. I know what Calvin preaches. I know what the AME doctrine says. I know what my Mama believed. I am at the age, sugar, where heaven is more than a Sunday school answer. I am working on it.

I drove to the grocery Saturday morning. Greens, three pounds. Onions, two big ones. Buttermilk, half gallon. Cornmeal, the good kind. Salt, because I always run out of salt.

Calvin and I watched the news Wednesday evening. He fell asleep in the recliner. I covered him with the afghan that Bernice crocheted before she died. The afghan is holding.

Sunday after service Calvin and I drove past the new sanctuary site. The choir loft windows were going in. We sat in the car and looked. He did not speak. I did not speak. The watching was the prayer.

The kitchen smelled like garlic and onion all afternoon Wednesday. Calvin came home from his Bible study and stood in the doorway and said, Loretta, what are we eating. I said, baby, you will see. He said, that is a yes from me. He has been saying that for fifty years.

Sister Beulah came by Tuesday afternoon to drop off the bulletins. She stayed for coffee. We talked about the church, about her grandbaby, about the heat. The visit was the visit.

I sat on the porch Saturday afternoon. The neighborhood was quiet. Mr. Henderson across the street waved. I waved back. The porches are the original social network, sugar. We have been at this since Eden.

I had a small cry Wednesday morning at the kitchen window. No reason in particular. The grief comes when it comes. I made coffee. I went on. That is how this works.

I read for an hour Sunday night before bed. The Bible, then a book Doris sent me about the civil rights movement in Birmingham. The book made me think about Bernice in the church kitchen during the bombings.

I stood at the kitchen window with my coffee Tuesday morning. Six o'clock. The light just coming. The yard quiet. Talking to Mama about the day ahead. The talking is its own prayer, sugar.

Doris called Thursday. Three times a week, the standard. We talked about Calvin's health. We talked about Harold's health. We talked about the family. We talked about what I was cooking.

I said Bernice’s recipe and I meant it — the buttermilk, the seasoned flour, the cast iron held at the right heat. That is what she left me and I do not take it lightly. But not every night is a Saturday with a full pot of oil, and there are weeknights when Calvin comes in from Bible study and asks what we are eating, and the answer needs to be something good and honest and not a full production. This breaded flounder is that kind of cooking — still a skillet, still a crust, still the warmth of something made with intention. Bernice would have approved of any fish done right, and doing it right is the whole point.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 12 minutes | Total Time: 22 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

4 flounder fillets (about 6 oz each)
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
2 large eggs, beaten
3/4 cup fine dry breadcrumbs
1/4 cup cornmeal
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon onion powder
1/2 teaspoon paprika
1/2 teaspoon salt, plus more to taste
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
3 tablespoons vegetable oil or butter (for pan-frying)
Lemon wedges, for serving

Instructions

Prepare the dredging stations. Set out three shallow bowls: one with the flour, one with the beaten eggs, and one with the breadcrumbs and cornmeal combined. Stir the garlic powder, onion powder, paprika, salt, and black pepper into the breadcrumb mixture until evenly distributed.
Pat the fish dry. Use paper towels to pat each flounder fillet thoroughly dry on both sides. This step is what gets you a crust that sticks and crisps rather than steams.
Dredge the fillets. Working one at a time, coat each fillet lightly in flour and shake off the excess. Dip into the beaten egg, letting the excess drip off. Press firmly into the breadcrumb mixture on both sides, coating evenly.
Heat the skillet. Warm the oil or butter in a large cast iron skillet or heavy-bottomed pan over medium-high heat until shimmering. You want the pan good and hot before the fish goes in.
Pan-fry the flounder. Place the breaded fillets in the skillet without crowding — cook in batches if needed. Fry for 3 to 4 minutes per side, turning once, until the crust is deep golden brown and the fish flakes easily with a fork.
Drain and season. Transfer the cooked fillets to a wire rack or paper-towel-lined plate. Season immediately with a pinch of salt while still hot. Serve with lemon wedges on the side.

Nutrition (per serving)

Breaded Flounder — Bernice’s Kitchen, and the Chains That Hold