A little while back, our neighbors gave us a couple pounds of frozen tilapia fillets. Unsure of how to proceed, I stuck them in the freezer and let them sit there for a couple weeks. But then this past Saturday, with the dreary, rainy weather threatening to pull me under, I decided a special supper was in order.

The fish-giving family had said that we should fry the fillets, but I’m no expert, so I resorted to Google. However, Google was decidedly unhelpful, so later on when my husband headed down to visit the neighbors just for anyhow, I had him call back up with their recipe.

“Salt the flour till you can taste it,” my husband explained over the cell phone. “Dip it in egg and then the flour—do it two times to make it extra crispy. And then fry it in lots of oil, about a half inch.”

I did just that (plus boiled a bunch of broccoli and made some lime-chili butter to garnish the rice) and we all went wild and pigged out. (Except for my younger daughter, but she didn’t count because she had a bad attitude.) The next day after church, we ate the leftover fish in sandwiches.

The decision is unanimous (except for the younger daughter who doesn’t count): we have to make the fish fry a weekly tradition.

(That night when my husband was visiting the neighbors, he got to watch the father process a fish. After catching a tilapia, he simply sliced off the fillets on either side of the fish without even killing it and then tossed the carcass in a bucket. That’s it. The fish didn’t even flop around, my husband said. I’m equal parts impressed and grossed out.)

Pan-Fried Tilapia

1-2 pounds of tilapia fillets
1-2 cups of flour
lots of salt
lots of black pepper
4 eggs
1-2 cups of oil

In one bowl, beat the eggs, and in another bowl, stir together the flour and salt. Taste the flour—if it tastes salty, you’ve added enough salt. Add a bunch of black pepper.

Pour enough oil into a skillet to fill it about a quarter inch (or more). Heat till shimmering.

Dip a fillet into egg and then flour. Repeat—egg and then flour. Place the fillet in hot oil. Fill the pan with the flour-coated fillets, and fry for about two minutes on each side, or until the crust is golden brown. Drain the fillets on paper towels. Serve hot.

Leftover fillets make excellent sandwiches. Simply reheat in a hot skillet and place between two pieces of bread with the toppings of your choice.

There once was a girl who had to go live in another country even though she didn’t want to. At first she was very angry and unhappy. She cried a lot and said she would be happy only if her mama and papa would buy her an American Girl Doll. But her mama explained (over and over again) that American Girl Dolls were out of the question, and their price range.

“I just need a toy!” the little girl sobbed. “I need a doll!”

“Why don’t you find a stick and tape a paper circle to it for a head—then you’ll have a doll,” the mother suggested cheerfully. She didn’t understand why the girl couldn’t just use her imagination a little.

“No, I need a real doll.”

“Well, we’ll look for a doll for you,” the mother sighed. “Remember, your birthday is coming up.”

And then, on Valentine’s Day, it happened. At the little girl’s school, the students all put their money together to pay for their lunch: Happy Meals from McDonald’s. Along with her hamburger and French fries and little packet of ketchup, the little girl got a toy. A real, honest-to-goodness, piece-of-plastic-crap toy.

It had blue hair and detachable pieces and the girl glowed with happiness.

“Mama,” she said that night, “I have a toy. I am so happy now.”

The end.

I’m achy-sad this morning. My nene (little one) didn’t want to go to school and we made him go anyway and it broke my heart a little.

He’s been having a really hard time. With zero comprehension and hours of sitting, he is bored out of his mind. And when he’s bored, he starts to think of me and then he gets sad and it’s all downhill from there. His teacher is a very nice woman, but quite reserved—he needs someone to engage him, to draw him in, to do more than just smile at him.

So this morning he sniffled and whimpered from the moment he woke up, and then when it came time to get in the neighbor’s car, he flat-out refused. So the kids went on their merry way and we took the tearful boy inside and explained to him in no uncertain terms that he was going to go to school period.

Fifteen minutes later, we were in a taxi, headed to school. He and I sat snuggled up together in the backseat, my arms around him and his arms around his stuffed snake, his sweet head leaning on my shoulder. I sniffed his head and hoped with all my might that the safety and coziness of the moment might, just might, be enough to carry him through the day.

At school, I walked him to his room—the closer we got to his room, the slower he walked—and when we arrived, he burst into tears and clung to me. But I got out his play dough, and the teacher, a sub (the director for the primary grades and a much more dynamic woman—maybe she’ll catch on that the poor child needs some extra help?), set up his desk and greeted him in English. And then he sat down obediently, and I fled out the door and down the corridor to the waiting taxi, his muffled sobs chasing after me.

On the way back to the house, the taxi driver ran over a dog, oh my word NO. (It’s not dead, he assured me cheerfully. Whatever.)

Hello, Monday morning.

PS. At least the sun is shining.

Update: he had a great day, hip-hip!