“I haven’t been to a fish boil in years,” she said as she unfolded her limbs from that tiny car.
“Why do they call it a fish boil? That sounds gross,” Bass said as they walked around the building to the patio where all the action would take place. Isaac stopped at the outdoor bar to get them both something to drink, leaving Sanna to explain. Smoky air wafted from the large fire in the center of a short brick wall circle. A large pot hung over the blaze with a woodpile stacked neatly at the edge of the circle. Huge hostas with leaves the size of watermelons edged the cozy courtyard, mingling with flowering day lilies. Black metal tables covered by festive red umbrellas dotted the large flagstone pavers, with a door leading to a snug dining room decorated like a bed-and-breakfast with a Swedish flare.
“It’s a tradition started by the Scandinavian settlers. It was a practical way to cook a lot of food for a lot of people at the same time, plus it makes an awesome fire.”
Bass bounced on the balls of his feet while he took in all the details.
“Cool. It’s a bonfire with food.”
Isaac returned with wineglasses and set a kiddie cocktail in front of Bass, who immediately devoured the cherries. Sanna took a sip, expecting a white wine, and looked up in surprise. It was cider—a lovely, dry cider.
“It’s from a local cidery. What color?” Isaac asked.
“Nothing. I don’t see anything when I drink other ciders, only mine. I think it’s because the apples come from our orchard. I’ve never tried to make cider with anyone else’s fruit.”
She took another sip. The taste was pleasant enough, but without the color it may as well be water. People filled the tables around them—mostly small families with kids, older couples. Everyone watched the older gentleman wearing a smeared white apron who did all the cooking. It was Mr. Smoot, a longtime friend of her dad’s. He gave her a nod of recognition right before he dumped an entire bucket of red potatoes into the boiling cauldron of water, then added a huge scoop of salt.
“What’s the white stuff?” Bass asked.
“That’s the salt. The fish boil here is just four ingredients: water, salt, potatoes, and whitefish from Lake Michigan. Some places add in corn on the cob or onions, but I like their simple approach best.”
“So what happens?”
“In a little while, they’ll add another basket that’s full of whitefish and more salt. As the fish cooks, the oil will rise to the top. They have a special trick for removing it you aren’t going to want to miss. It’s the best part. Then we go inside, fill a plate, then pour warm melted butter and lemon over it and eat until we’re stuffed.” Sanna’s stomach growled. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed fish boils here. Rustic and delicious.
As they waited for the fish to cook, she answered Bass’s and Isaac’s questions, but saved the best part as a secret. When everyone began to gather around the cooking pit, Sanna maneuvered Bass to the front so he could have a perfect view for the grand finale with her and Isaac behind him. When Mr. Smoot splashed the kerosene on the fire, it caused the fish oil to boil over the edge of the pot into the fire, making a huge flare—like a fireball. Bass jumped and the crowed oohed as one. Isaac slid his hand around hers during the commotion. The heat from the intense fire singed her skin, but that didn’t explain the searing where his hand touched hers.
“That was baller!” Bass said, and turned to look at her and Isaac when the flames died down a few moments later. Isaac released her hand, but the warmth where they had touched lingered.
“Were you two holding hands?”
“I can hold Sanna’s hand if she says it’s okay, right?” His eyes flicked to hers and she knew he hoped she’d play along.
“Absolutely, and I said it was okay.” And it was. Like every time he touched her, holding his hand tortured and soothed her senses. The crowd shuffled around them, and they merged with its tide into the dining room to load their plates with potatoes and whitefish and drench it all in melted butter and lemon. She showed the boys how to remove most of the bones at once by carefully lifting off the top fillet of fish, then peeling out the spine, which—when you did it right—brought all the smaller fish bones with it. The meal ended as it should, with a slice of Door County cherry pie and ice cream.
“Mrs. Dibble’s pie is way better,” Bass said, though he shoveled it in with no problems, even helping Sanna with hers while he thought she wasn’t looking.
? ? ? ? ?
The waitresses rushed from table to table, hustling to get the dining room ready for the next wave of patrons already congregating outside on the patio. She knew most of them by sight, having seen them at the Pig, or Shopko, or even at Idun’s buying apples.
Stuffed with the good food, all three of them reclined in their chairs to patiently await the bill as the tables around them emptied. Isaac and Bass rubbed their bellies and compared whose was bigger, taking turns “ho-hoing” like Santa to see whose impression was better. She loved how Isaac played with Bass without acting like he was playing. They just had fun being themselves.
A shadow crossed the table, and Sanna looked up to see Thad towering over them. She did her best to not vocalize the ugh she thought, but she couldn’t stop her smile from sliding off her face. Thad was a mud puddle when compared to Isaac’s dazzling rainbow. It wasn’t that she disliked him or wanted him to cease existing, she just didn’t feel anything much for him—only that ditching him had made her life cleaner.
“You’re dating him now?” Thad asked without even the common courtesy of a hello, his jaw clenched and eyes pinched. She’d known him her whole life, and he’d never been boorish before—boring, yes, but not rude like this. Of course, she’d never spent time with another man who she wasn’t related to. Was he jealous? She looked up at him as if he were a worm squashed on the bottom of her boot. How could she get rid of him without this turning into a scene?
“You’re making assumptions. The three of us are having a fun night out, my dad arranged it for us.” Thad’s eyes pinched more.
“So your dad set you up? He’s your pimp now?”
How dare he say something so nasty! Sanna stood, causing the table to rock and a little cup of melted butter to spill, leaving a greasy trail across the tablecloth. Thad’s eyes widened as he was forced to look up a few inches to maintain eye contact. “Never, ever speak to me like that again, Thad Rundstrom.”
For a moment she thought he would slink away, properly intimidated. Instead he straightened as tall as he could and smirked in her face.
“People are talking all over town about you and him. Mrs. Dibble has you all but married.”
“Everyone knows Mrs. Dibble exaggerates to make a story.”