From the time my children were small I made sure they were exposed to their Canadian “Roots”. Having a Canadian mother and a Vincentian father meant that Vanessa and Rachel had dual citizenship, and we often went to stay with friends and family in Ontario during the off-season.
My mother and father spent six months of the year on Bequia, the other six in Muskoka, Canada. Muskoka is cottage country, and ours was located near Lake Rosseau in a small village called Windermere. From the time I was a baby my summers were spent at the cottage, and it’s where I learned how to swim, fish, paddle a canoe and water-ski.
One week-end the cottage was filled to the rafters with family, a common occurrence during the summer months. After lunch the adults decided to take the children fishing, and we went in search of poles and bait. Alas, we were one pole short, which meant Rachel (being the youngest) had no fishing gear. I attached some fishing line to a stick along with a hook and sinker and the problem was solved. I knew little Rachel wouldn’t catch anything but at least she wouldn’t feel left out.
As we fished from the end of the dock the children were told the rules about catching and releasing, something that made absolutely no sense to a little Bequia girl! It was explained that small fish had to be returned to the lake, only fish exceeding a certain number of inches could be kept. Little perch were caught with ease and returned to the lake, with my girls insisting they were perfect “Brof Fish!” At home on Bequia those perch would have been simmering in a pot, not thrown back in the water!
Suddenly Rachel gave a mighty roar and screamed, “I have a fish! I have a fish!” Sure enough, she DID have a fish, or rather her hook had snagged one in passing, and it flew over her head as she yanked at her stick, landing behind her on the wooden dock. It was a small-mouth bass, a large one, obviously big enough to keep. Rachel threw her little body on top of the thrashing fish, making sure it didn’t escape.
Such excitement! The smallest child had caught the biggest fish, the only one big enough to keep, and I promised Rachel that she could eat her fish for dinner that night. Clutching her bass, Rachel asked me to make “brof” with dumplings, and after scaling and cleaning the fish I made the necessary preparations in the kitchen.
I cut and seasoned the fish with salt and garlic, bemoaning the lack of ticky thyme and flavor peppers. I simmered the bass with onions, carrots and potatoes, then added the dumplings one by one. Covering the soup, I left it to boil gently until done. It smelled wonderful!
My Sister-in-law Valerie, smelling the aromas wafting from the kitchen, lifted the lid on the pot and screamed! The lid fell to the floor with a clang, and we all raced to see what had happened. Val pointed into the pot, where the eyes of the bass were peering sightlessly up from the broth, and expressed her disgust at what was being cooked on the stove. She had obviously never had “fish brof” before and it didn’t look like she would be trying it anytime soon!
The majority of the family ate hamburgers that night, the exceptions being two little girls from Bequia and my father, who ate the fish soup happily. I have to admit I didn’t care for it, fish broth made with fresh-water fish just wasn’t the same, but it made my little girls happy and that’s what mattered the most!
Hey Jude. Reading this story reminded me of the time we took Mac up to a cottage in the Kawarthas. I had first met Mac in “76” and returning to Canada had rekindled our friendship and I introduced Mac to my group of friends. While at the cottage doing what we all did in those days, I’ll leave it to your imagination, we all went fishing to introduce Mac to fishing Ontario style. Well needless to say in our compromised state no one was successful in landing the “big”one except for Mac who managed to fill a bucket with all the sunfish, perch and so called nuisance fish. These fish weren’t destined for the fish brof but instead were roasted on the grill, head and eyes intact and we had a great lunch after all, Bequia beach style. The only thing missing were roast sprats on an oil drum lid and roast breadfruit. Canadian Ma’k
I love the pictures – wee david and michael helping out their cousins. Btw, while we always said we are going north to the cottge, Muskoka is considered southern ontario. You forget how big the province is!!
Guess I considered it as “going up North”! I stand corrected……
Soooo Sweet. I remember a story about one of Joffre’s sisters, Foreign boyfriends lifting a pot off Chicken stew, I think it was, and dropped the pot cover quickly, as the Chickens feet were sitting on top of the stew.
Oh yeah, that startled me the first time too! Chicken feet in the stew were not a part of my Canadian upbringing!