Lately I’ve been thinking about how many of history’s conflicts could have been resolved if we had only gotten the opposing parties to a North Louisiana-style fish fry. You know, a good one, with catfish fillets breaded in salt and corn meal and bounced in a grocery sack so that they are patiently poised to play their part for world peace. 

Ever since God gave us the trot line and blood bait, there’s been nothing more effective than the rural ritual of catch-em-and- clean-em- cook-em-and- eat-em to bring out the best in your fellow man. 

If only Custer and Sitting Bull had gotten the opportunity to sit around in a couple of folding lawn chairs, feet propped up, listening to the hot oil gurgling in a cast iron pot heated by a freshly-filled bottle of butane, the conversation could have gone something like this:

Sitting Bull: “Umm, catfish good but little salty, what you got um in ice chest?” Me want more hushpuppies. "

General Custer: “Sure, here you go SB. How about a little sliced Vidalia onion to go with that? Tell you what, how ‘bout after we take our nap, I take these soldiers on out of here and leave you fellows alone? Ya’ll seem like peaceful folks, and considering your being here first and all, it’s only right you have a place you can call your own. 

Did you get some sliced tomatoes? I raised them myself back at the fort. I’m thinkin’ of selling my hushpuppy mix at Wild West shows. I’m going to call it The Batter of Little Big Horn. What do you think of that name there, Chiefy?” 

Sitting Bull: Ugh

Jimmy Carter, our first Southern and worst president ever, understood how hard it was to make war with somebody with your mouth full of homemade tartar sauce. He used to drain his farm ponds and cook catfish for visiting dignitaries. 

I’ll bet shortly before the Camp David Peace Accords were signed, somebody overheard Israeli Prime Minister Begin say to his Egyptian counterpart, “Dang Anwar, you eat this good back home? Old peanut head here sure puts on a good spread, don’t he?"

"Shoot and shalom, ‘War, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to ink this deal if we get to eat like this more often!” 

If there had been a good fish fry going at the Berlin Wall, JFK might have gotten to rephrase his famous line to: “Ich bin ein catfish eater!” or President Reagan might have said to the Russian Premier, "Mr. Gorbachev? Tear down this wall, and the hop on over here a try out some of this channel cat, it’s nyet bad!" 

Who’s to say a little deep fried détente wouldn’t have helped thaw out the Cold War a little sooner?

I don’t know if the War of Northern Aggression could have been prevented on the patio. 

Lewis Grizzard, a great American and my favorite writer, used to say that it was a well known fact that the Union went to war with the South because we had better food. I’ve lived in both and wholeheartedly agree. 

Because they tend to be bottom feeders, I know most Yankees don’t care for catfish but consider carp a delicacy. Go figure! No wonder we went to war. I think they forced us to switch over to pond raised catfish during Reconstruction. 

Name me one major historical conflict that didn’t start as a result of a breakdown in communications – where two sides didn’t quit talking and start fighting. 

In this hot-as-boiling- peanut-oil world of ours, getting somebody to sit down long enough to enjoy a deep fried taste of North Louisiana may just be what we need. 

Whether you’ve got fences to build or mend, can you think of a better way to keep the lines of communication open? 

The rules of catfish diplomacy would require that, before we take sides, we whip some up. Before we fire at each other, we fire that old butane burner up and toss in some Reconstruction catfish and Batter of Little Big Horn hushpuppies and just talk and eat. 

I’m betting right after our nap we’d part friends

Copyright 2009 Randy Rogers