Good morning.
We stand on the boat, on a platform at the stern or on the softening deck in the bow, and we look.
Sometimes the fish come, sliding around happy in the middle of the outgoing tide: Cast!
Other times they don’t, and eyes move up: an osprey, a wisp of cloud, a bald eagle, a flapping flag on a pole a mile away, an oystercatcher, a jetliner inbound from Europe, terns, oak trees, a congregation of glossy ibises flapping into a wedge above the marsh.
All this but my thoughts run, mostly, to dinner: the chicken I’ve got resting in a buttermilk bath for fried chicken (above), a father’s gift to himself, my favorite fried chicken recipe, hard-won over time.
Persons:
It’s, Ethan Allen
Locations:
Europe