Homemade Fish Sticks

I called Cornerstone Church on Monday morning, 8:01 AM, because I told myself I would call and I have learned that the space between "I will" and "I did" is where good intentions go to die, so I called at 8:01, one minute after the office opened, before I could talk myself out of it or decide it wasn't that bad or convince myself that Jayden just needed time. Time is not a strategy. Time is what you waste when you're scared of the actual strategy.

The youth counseling coordinator is a woman named Denise — and yes, I noticed the name, the same name as the nurse who left me $50 at Waffle House and changed the direction of my entire life. I am not saying it's a sign. I am not a signs person. I am a coincidence person who occasionally makes eye contact with the universe and thinks, "Okay, fine, I see you." This Denise is not that Denise. This Denise is a licensed counselor who runs the church's youth mentoring program, and she told me they have openings, and they work on a sliding scale, and Jayden could start as early as next week if I filled out the intake forms. I filled out the intake forms at the dental office during my lunch break, in the same break room where I cried on the first day of school, at the same table where I eat the lunches I pack at 5:30 AM. That table has seen a lot from me. That table should charge me rent.

The conference at DuPont Tyler was Wednesday afternoon. I wore my good jeans and the blouse I wear to church and I sat in the chair across from Mrs. Odom and Jayden's homeroom teacher, Mr. Franklin, and I was the calm mother. I was the calm mother with my hands folded in my lap and my back straight and my face arranged in the expression of a woman who is listening, who is cooperative, who is not screaming inside. Mr. Franklin said Jayden is smart — "really smart, Mrs. Mitchell, when he engages" — but that he's been withdrawn, that he doesn't participate, that he sits in the back and does the minimum. The minimum. My boy, who practiced a lock combination eleven times at the kitchen table, who shoved a kid for talking about his dad, who eats two bowls of chicken and dumplings and says "this is good, Mom" like those four words are all he has left — my boy is doing the minimum. Because the minimum is all he can carry right now. I know this. I have been the minimum. I was the minimum for years.

I told them about the counseling. I told them I was getting him help. Mrs. Odom nodded and wrote something down and said, "We appreciate your partnership, Mrs. Mitchell." Partnership. As if this were a business arrangement and not my child's life. I smiled. I shook hands. I walked to the Altima and sat there for three minutes and did not cry. I did not cry because crying doesn't fix the chair or the file or the boy, and I have a limited supply of falling apart and I am saving it for when I really need it.

Jayden doesn't know I went to the conference. The school contacted me, not him. I'll tell him about the counseling this weekend — frame it as a good thing, a resource, a person who listens. Not a punishment. Please, God, let him not hear it as a punishment.

The rest of the week was its own kind of medicine. Elijah brought home a drawing from school — a family portrait, the kind where everybody is stick figures with circle heads and the arms come out of the neck. There I was: a big circle head with brown crayon hair and a triangle dress (I have never worn a triangle dress, but in Elijah's artistic vision I am a geometric wonder). Next to me, smaller: Chloe with yellow earrings (she doesn't have earrings, but artistic license is Elijah's love language). Then Jayden, who in the drawing has huge arms, which Elijah explained is because "Jayden is strong, Mama." And Elijah himself, the smallest figure, holding what appeared to be an orange circle. "That's a basketball," he said. It was not a basketball. It was Gerald the Orange Fish, drawn round. I didn't correct him. The portrait went on the fridge, next to Gerald himself, next to the report card, next to the schedule on the envelope. The refrigerator is a museum and the museum is my life.

I cooked to steady myself, the way I always cook to steady myself, the way some people pray or run or drink. I cook. It's the same impulse — the need to do something with your hands when your heart is too full or too empty. Tuesday I made a big pot of chili. Not fancy chili. Tuesday-night-in-September chili. Ground beef browned with onion and garlic. Two cans of kidney beans. One can of black beans. A big can of crushed tomatoes. Chili powder, cumin, paprika, a little brown sugar, salt, pepper, a shake of cayenne because I want warmth, not pain, and there's enough pain this week without adding it to the food. Simmered for an hour while Chloe did homework and Jayden sat in his room and Elijah watched a show about a dog who solves mysteries, which he narrated out loud as if I couldn't hear the television myself.

I served the chili with cornbread — always cornbread — and sour cream and shredded cheese. Jayden came to the table. He sat. He ate. He did not talk about the cafeteria or the office or the note in his file. He said, "Can I have more cheese?" I said, "Knock yourself out." He put an unreasonable amount of cheese on his chili and ate it. Cheese is the love language of eleven-year-old boys. Cheese is how they say, "I'm here and I'm not okay but I'm eating and that means something." I accept cheese. I understand cheese. Cheese is enough.

Saturday I went to Kroger and spent $47 on groceries for the week. I had my coupons. I had my list. I bought what was on sale and nothing that wasn't, because October is coming and October means Elijah's birthday month and Jayden's counseling co-pay and the electric bill going down because the AC can finally rest and the gas bill going up because the heat is next. The math is always changing. The math is a living thing. I bought chicken thighs ($1.49/lb), a bag of rice, canned tomatoes, dried beans, eggs, milk, bread, cheese (always cheese), bananas, carrots, a bag of Goldfish crackers, and a single lemon because sometimes you need a lemon and you can't explain why, you just need something bright and sharp and possible in the grocery bag among all the practical things.

Sunday. Cornbread. The table. My three kids and their circle heads and their strong arms and their orange basketballs and their behavioral notes and their A-papers and their crayons eaten by hamsters. October is coming. The counseling starts next week. The conference is done. The chili is gone. The lemon is on the counter, unused, waiting, bright and sharp and possible. I'm going to use it tomorrow. I don't know for what yet. But I'll figure it out. I always figure it out.

The chili was gone by Friday, and Saturday’s Kroger run reminded me why I keep this recipe in permanent rotation alongside it — fish sticks, homemade, made from a white fish fillet and whatever breading I have in the cabinet, because $47 has to go a long way and this is one of the meals that goes the furthest. Jayden eats them without complaint. Elijah dips them in ketchup and calls it a whole event. After a week of conferences and intake forms and sitting very still in chairs while keeping my face arranged correctly, I needed something I could make with my hands that would land on the table fast and disappear even faster — and this is that recipe.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 18 minutes | Total Time: 28 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

1 1/2 lbs cod, tilapia, or pollock fillets, cut into 1-inch strips
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon onion powder
1/2 teaspoon paprika
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
2 large eggs, beaten
1 cup plain breadcrumbs (or panko for extra crunch)
2 tablespoons olive oil or cooking spray
Ketchup, tartar sauce, or lemon wedges for serving

Instructions

Preheat. Heat oven to 425°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and brush or spray lightly with olive oil.
Set up your breading station. In a shallow bowl, mix the flour, garlic powder, onion powder, paprika, salt, and pepper. In a second bowl, beat the eggs. In a third bowl, place the breadcrumbs.
Bread the fish. Pat fish strips dry with a paper towel. Working one piece at a time, dredge in the seasoned flour, dip in the beaten egg, then press firmly into the breadcrumbs to coat all sides. Place on the prepared baking sheet.
Oil and bake. Lightly spray or brush the tops of the breaded fish sticks with olive oil. Bake for 16–18 minutes, flipping once at the 10-minute mark, until the coating is golden and crisp and the fish flakes easily with a fork.
Serve. Serve immediately with ketchup, tartar sauce, or a squeeze of lemon. These go fast — plan accordingly.

Nutrition (per serving)

Homemade Fish Sticks — The Budget Weeknight Meal My Kids Actually Eat