smelt frys and tying flies

My husband's Uncle Max, after spending his annual 2 "glorious weeks" on his own camping up in the outer reaches of Labrador fly fishing, would arrive back home to Spencer's Island, Nova Scotia with a mitt full of salmon and a glow on. When he'd come over to the old house for a catch up visit when we'd be down for a summer weekend, he'd always sigh and say..........

"You know, fly fishin' for salmon is better than sex with Marilyn Munroe."

Then, he'd wax poetic............and sometimes even quote poetry.......while he gave us the lowdown on his trip to fly fishin' heaven. Well, he wasn't really talking to me, though I'd be in the vicinity as a passive listener. NO, he wanted the attention of the other boys, while he passed me the slimey pleasurable fish to "dress up" for dinner. It's just the way he was. OH, sure we'd have our own conversations about stuff both he and I were interested in when the "boys" werent around, but if he was in one of his fishing and hunting or wood cutting and farming modes, I was invisible.

Now, I'm not interested in sex with Marilyn Munroe. I sure as hell don't think fly fishing EVEN if it was with BRAD PITT teaching me how to cast is better than sex. But how do I know? I've never tried fly fishing........ and tying flies and fly fishing are a big deal around these here parts.

So are smelts. Frozen smelts, and freshly dressed smelts..........all smelts. For frying!! Now, I have fished for these in the creek behind my house during the spring run when I was a kid. But, I never considered taking them home for a quick fry up. Those tiny smelly oily things? Gross.

Last weekend, I had breakfast at the local Farmer's market with a guy who is running for candidacy of a local political party I support. Funny how markets and politics around the world go hand in hand. This one is no different. On any Saturday morning, whether it's election time or not, my Market is crawling with politicians and wannabes. You may not be able to score a samosa these days at the Fredericton Market (big local debacle happening here), but if you're looking for a big slab of cow's tongue or yummy headcheese......if you're looking for freshly dressed smelts or soup bones.......if you're looking for a gladhanding politician, head over to the market on Saturday morning.

So, I found myself sitting at a table with the candidate, and two good ol' boys.....a local MLA and a used car dealer eating a bagel and drinking tea and talking about smelts of all things. Turns out the local MLA was having his annual smelt fry that afternoon........"a BIG FRY UP by' Jaysus!"

While we're having this conversation about how long it's been since the last chow down on smelts, several others stop by to say hello..............hello to the preferred candidate guy, hello to the MLA, hello to good ol boy used car dealer guy...........and always a quizzical look my way. Why? Because every single person who stopped by was a male; 90% of whom were older than me.............and I'd hazzard a guess that a majority of them if they thought about it would admit that fly fishing for salmon is better than sex with Marilyn Munroe. What they did all agree on vocally was their love for smelt frys.

It truly was a venus and mars moment.


Don't get me wrong. The men who hovered around the table are nice decent men. Even the local MP stopped by for friendly smelt fry banter toting a leather knapsack just like the Leader of his party. But, I had absolutely nothing in common with them except for my interest in getting our candidate the candidacy. Not only that, it was very apparent to me that my presence was perceived as odd. I was as much of a discomfort to them as they were to me. Since I was outnumbered, I was the perverbial fish out of water. A muskie, perhaps? :)

This is nothing new. Still, it rankled me again that it's painfully obvious there is a disconnect between politics and the female gender as I sat there outnumbered. Me and a bunch of men who just want to hang out with eachother and not have a person with breasts hanging around. I've learned over the years that there's no point in even trying to jump into the conversation. They don't want to hear any stories from me. They sure as shit don't want to hear any sarcasm or absurdist views coming out of my mouth.........no these moments are almost always chest puffing small talk shooting the shit moments.

And I had so many comments and questions whirling around my head too like.......

You know, whenever I see a sign saying "freshly dressed smelts" I expect to see the little gaffers all buffed out in tuxedos. It always shocks me to see that it's just a bunch of tiny oily fish with their heads cut off.

Or.................

I'm running a tally to find out if this is true or not. I heard that fly fishing for salmon is........................what do you think?

Or................

So, if fly fishing is better than sex, how orgasmic is killing a buck?


Funny though, my political candidate doesn't fit this mold. But, he's able to adjust himself. I can't. He can talk the talk and they listen to him. He's a he.........a he who was expected to take part in the smelt frying later that afternoon, which I'm sure grossed him out as much as it would me. He's the candidate though, I'm not though neither of us had a choice.........I wasn't invited.

And we wonder why Canada ranks #47th amongst the worlds democracies for the number of women represented in the national legislature. There are only so many smelt conversations a lady can withstand.