Mama’s Saturday Fried Catfish -- The Recipe That Comes Out When the Rain Finally Breaks

Rain all week in Memphis, the kind of steady spring rain that turns the low spots on my route into small lakes and makes Senator the poodle on Evelyn Avenue even more hostile than usual, because wet poodles are angry poodles and angry poodles are the natural enemy of mail carriers everywhere. I wore my rain gear every day — the same USPS-issue jacket I've had for twelve years, patched at the elbows, smelling permanently of damp cotton and responsibility — and I delivered the mail because the mail doesn't stop for weather. That's the job. Rain, shine, heat, cold — you carry the bag and you walk the route and you put the letters where they belong. Thirty-six years of this, and I've never missed a day for weather. I've missed days for funerals and for surgeries and for one terrible week in 2010 that I don't talk about, but never for weather.

Tuesday I got a letter from the USPS Office of Human Resources about retirement benefits. I'm fifty-seven, with thirty-six years of service, which means I qualify for the full pension whenever I choose to take it. Rosetta has been gently suggesting I think about retirement since I turned fifty-five, and by "gently suggesting" I mean she brings it up every time my knee swells or my back seizes or I come home too tired to eat, which is about twice a week. I put the letter in the drawer with the other letters. There are four of them now, each one a little more insistent than the last, like a mother calling a child in for dinner.

I don't want to retire. I know that sounds foolish from a man whose body is telling him every morning that thirty-six years of carrying forty pounds of mail over six miles of Memphis sidewalk has consequences. But the route is mine. I know it the way I know my own house — every crack in the sidewalk, every tree root that buckles the concrete, every gate that sticks and every dog that barks and every front porch where someone might be sitting, waiting for a letter, waiting for a conversation, waiting for someone to say good morning and mean it. What am I if I'm not the mailman?

Rosetta would say I'm her husband and a father and a grandfather and a pitmaster and a church deacon and a man who has earned the right to sit down. And she'd be right about all of it. But she'd also be right that I'm scared, though she'd never say it that way because Rosetta handles my feelings with the same precision she handles an IV line — carefully, directly, and with minimal fuss.

Saturday the rain broke and the sun came out like an apology, and I made fried catfish for dinner because fried catfish is what Mama made on Saturdays when the weather finally turned, and because some recipes are tied to moments, not just ingredients. Mama's catfish: cornmeal dredge with cayenne and garlic powder, fried in a cast iron skillet with enough oil to make a cardiologist weep, served with coleslaw and white bread and hot sauce for those who want it, though Mama always said good catfish doesn't need hot sauce and if yours does, you fried it wrong.

I called Mama after dinner. She was having a clear day — knew who I was, knew what year it was, asked about the grandchildren by name. She told me about a new aide at the facility who reminds her of Vernell, my younger sister, and about the sweet potato casserole they served at lunch that she described as "an insult to potatoes everywhere." I laughed so hard I had to sit down. Pearlie Mae Johnson, seventy-eight years old, still the toughest food critic in Shelby County.

She asked about the smoker. I told her it was fine, resting in the backyard, waiting for the weekend. She said, "You take care of Clyde's smoker, Earl. That's family." I said I know, Mama. I know. She said I was a big baby. I said I know that too.

Rosetta and I sat on the porch after I hung up, watching the last light fade over the neighborhood, the wet streets shining like they'd been polished. She didn't mention retirement. I didn't mention the letter in the drawer. We just sat, the way old married people sit — not needing to talk, just needing to be in the same place at the same time, the quiet between us full of thirty-two years of everything we've already said.

After hanging up with Mama and sitting with Rosetta in that good, quiet dark, I didn’t want anything complicated — I wanted something that felt like home the way home used to feel, before retirement letters and smokers and all the weight of what’s changing. Mama’s fried catfish is exactly that: cast iron, cornmeal, hot oil, and not a single thing to overthink. It’s what she made on Saturday afternoons when the week had been too much, and that night, it was exactly the right answer.

Mama’s Saturday Fried Catfish

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 35 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

• 4 catfish fillets (6–8 oz each), rinsed and patted dry
• 1 1/2 cups yellow cornmeal
• 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
• 1 1/2 teaspoons cayenne pepper
• 1 teaspoon garlic powder
• 1 teaspoon onion powder
• 1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt, plus more for finishing
• 1 teaspoon black pepper
• 1 cup buttermilk
• 1 teaspoon hot sauce (for the soak, not the table)
• Vegetable oil or lard, for frying (enough for 1 inch depth in a 12-inch cast iron skillet)
• White sandwich bread and coleslaw, for serving

Instructions

1. Soak the fillets. Combine the buttermilk and hot sauce in a shallow dish. Submerge the catfish fillets, cover, and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes and up to 2 hours. This pulls out any muddy flavor and helps the dredge stick.
2. Mix the dredge. In a wide, shallow bowl, whisk together the cornmeal, flour, cayenne, garlic powder, onion powder, salt, and black pepper until evenly combined. The cornmeal does the work here—don’t skimp on it.
3. Heat the oil. Pour oil into a 12-inch cast iron skillet to a depth of about 1 inch. Heat over medium-high until it reaches 350°F. If you don’t have a thermometer, drop a pinch of cornmeal in—it should sizzle and float immediately.
4. Dredge the fillets. Remove each fillet from the buttermilk soak, letting the excess drip off. Press each one firmly into the cornmeal mixture on both sides, coating completely. Set on a rack while the oil finishes heating.
5. Fry in batches. Carefully lower 2 fillets into the hot oil. Fry undisturbed for 4–5 minutes on the first side until deep golden brown, then flip once and fry another 3–4 minutes. The crust should be firm and crackling. Do not crowd the skillet—crowding drops the oil temperature and makes the crust steam instead of fry.
6. Drain and season. Transfer finished fillets to a wire rack set over a sheet pan. Season immediately with a pinch of kosher salt while still hot. Hold in a 200°F oven while you fry the remaining fillets.
7. Serve the right way. Plate with coleslaw and white sandwich bread. Hot sauce belongs on the table for anyone who wants it—but as Pearlie Mae Johnson would tell you, if you fried it right, they won’t need it.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 520 | Protein: 38g | Fat: 22g | Carbs: 42g | Fiber: 3g | Sodium: 680mg