BOB KORNEGAY: ‘Betting on catfish’

No matter how sophisticated an angler you become, you just gotta love catfish. No, not those fat, pampered farm pond catfish caught and bought at a per-pound price. I’m talking real catfish: tough-talking, cigar-smoking, street-fighting catfish. Catfish who never ate a Purina pellet or spent time in a cage. Slimy, night-prowling, eat-anything catfish. God bless ‘em.

My catfish are Huck Finn’s catfish, born in a creek or river; fish put on earth to be hooked in the lip by barefoot boys and grown men who never quite grew up.

What a fish, this real catfish. He’s beautiful. Not in an all-American, leading-man sort of way, but beautiful like Keith Richards to a rabid Rolling Stones fan. Sensual, sublime ugliness, if you will. Beautiful like a critter who’s been “around the block”, taken what evolution had to offer, and survived. Thrived even.

You find him practically anywhere fresh water flows, from pristine mountain lakes to muddy, sluggish coastal plain rivers. He lives there, content, on the other side of the tracks, perfectly satisfied to let uptown neighbors like the bass and the trout bask in glory. The catfish is quite content with his blue-collar existence. Never mind the prime cuts. He’s happy as can be with a plate of chittlins.

He knows many names: blue, channel, white, bullhead, flathead. A few diminutive eccentrics of his kind bear the unflattering title of madtom. Call him what you will, somewhere along the way he has touched almost every angler’s life. His slime has begrimed our fingers and his fins have pierced our palms.

How many of us have not at one time or another dangled some smelly offering (living or dead) in front of a catfish’s sensitive snout? And how few of us have not been rewarded with a bite and subsequent hook-up? The catfish is nothing if not cooperative. For just that reason he is often the first catch for many a young angler, the fish that introduces many to fishing itself.

The catfish has other attributes besides the nostalgic ones. To those inclined to feast upon his body, the flesh can be delicate and sweet. He is easily cooked and eaten, with few sharp bones to deter even the inexperienced diner. Even Socrates might wonder how a creature so ugly in life can be so beautiful battered and fried.

But his culinary positives come with a price. We cannot scale him and he is all but impossible to fillet. He sheds his skin only after much tugging, jerking, cursing, and slinging. As well, he impales hands and wrists upon sharp dorsal and pectoral fins tipped with an irritating, infection-causing slime. He does all this without malice. It’s just a reminder that nothing good comes easy.

We gauge the catfish in weights ranging from ounces to dozens of pounds. Size, however, is always relative and seldom matters to many. The six-ounce bullhead pulled from a tiny creek gives a nine-year-old every bit as much pleasure as a grownup angler’s 100-pound blue or flathead. And who hasn’t heard the restaurant order, “Bring me a plate of small ones. They’re better eatin’.”

Some shun the catfish as lowly and unglamorous. They scoff at those who dig fat worms to tempt him. They look with disdain upon fishermen whose hands smell of strong cheese, ripe chicken blood, or chunks of meat from baitfish too long dead. Yep, they’ll thumb their noses, but they’ll also wolf down second helpings of Mr. Whiskers, hushpuppies, and home fries.

Personally, I care not what others think. The catfish is a noble creature with whom I’ll always share a special bond.

I like him even better now that I’ve won 50 bucks from a fool who bet me I couldn’t, in one hour’s time, write a whole column in praise of a lowdown catfish.

Pay up, Cletus.