Fried food in my forties

Clear, liquid gold. Scent of hot peanut oil. Spatter as beer-battered fish strips are dropped in. An eruption of oily froth with each addition, then a settling into furious bubbling around each strip, like caterpillar feet on hot sand. We rarely fry food at home. The kids wanted fish sticks the other night. I moaned. … Continue reading Fried food in my forties