I Fry My Fish in Cornmeal

I Fry My Fish in Cornmeal

A 7th Ward Story About Fellowship, Fish Grease, and the Flavor of Community

By Kateb Shunnar

Now, let me start by tellin’ y’all right off the bat this story is fictional but factual, in the way only a New Orleans fish fry can make sense of truth. You see, there’s a certain kind of magic that happens when you fry a catfish in cornmeal on a Friday evening, grease poppin’ and cracklin’ like the brass band down the street, and the smell waltzin’ through the air, sneakin’ into every open window along N. Claiborne Avenue. That smell don’t just make your stomach rumble; it reminds you that life, messy and chaotic as it can get, is meant to be shared, passed around, and licked clean off the plate when nobody’s watchin’. It’s that kind of spirit, that kind of gathering, that feeds the soul of a community and I ain’t talkin’ just about the folks next door, no sir. I’m talkin’ about the whole neighborhood, the generations comin’ up behind us, the old-timers who still remember the corner of St. Bernard and Claiborne like it was a second home. That’s where Circle Food Store sits, and if you ever doubt the pride a community can hold in its history, just remember that Circle was the first Black-owned grocery in New Orleans. First. Not the second, not the third the first. That little store has seen more knees bend, more tongues wag, and more secrets slip out between the candy aisle and the back of the meat freezer than any church or city hall ever could. And yet, somehow, it never lost its charm or its soul.

Now, Friday’s a special day in New Orleans for a reason. Not because the weekend’s comin’ though, don’t get me wrong, that’s part of it but because Friday is when the fish fry tradition goes off. Everybody knows the story, some part history, some part tall tale: enslaved folks, Saturday night gatherings, Saturday night freedoms, then Fridays ‘cause of the Catholic abstinence thing you know, no meat on Friday. But we Black folks in New Orleans? We made it more than a tradition, more than a dinner; we made it a statement. We made it family, whether you liked the people or not. And that’s the lesson I’m tryin’ to get across here: community ain’t just a neighborly nod and a “hey, how’s it goin’?” Community is sittin’ elbow-to-elbow, sharing a plate of fish fried in cornmeal, hollerin’ at the kid who done dropped hushpuppies on the sidewalk, and laughin’ about it anyway. That’s how you build something healthy, something healable, somethin’ that lasts generations.

Now, speaking of fish fried in cornmeal, let me tell you, I ain’t about that flour-battered life. You can have your pre-packaged mixes, your fancy Cajun blends from the store they got their place, don’t get me wrong. But when I’m talkin’ cornmeal, I mean that gritty, golden, just-enough-crunch kind of coating that clings to the fish like it’s afraid of losin’ its place in this world. Cornmeal understands life. It’s simple, reliable, doesn’t put on airs, but if you treat it right, it makes somethin’ glorious out of the ordinary. Just like community.

And Hunter’s Field, well, Hunter’s Field is where the magic happens. Right there in the 7th Ward, named in honor of the Yellow Pocahontas tribe yes, that’s right, our ancestors left a footprint there so strong it still carries a pulse the park is sacred ground for anyone who’s ever wanted to feel like they belong somewhere bigger than themselves. That field’s seen second lines and parades, candlelight vigils, sports programs for the youth, memorials, and yes, the occasional mischief that makes your mama clutch her pearls. You could say Hunter’s Field is the heart of the community, a place where the past, the present, and the future rub elbows and occasionally bump heads. And Fridays? Well, Fridays are when all that rubbing elbows turns into somethin’ holy.

Picture this: sun startin’ to sink low behind the expressway, the air sticky with summer heat and that unmistakable funk of New Orleans a mix of gumbo, fried fish, and the faint whiff of mystery that always seems to follow the 7th Ward and there I am, tray in hand, tryna dodge the kid with a bag of French fries who thinks he’s the next Ray Charles and ain’t lookin’ where he’s goin’. Folks gatherin’ around, church folks, school folks, cousins I only see at funerals or Mardi Gras, neighbors I been callin’ “stranger” for years suddenly they ain’t strangers no more. We laugh at each other, we argue over who makes the best coleslaw, we whisper stories of long-ago ancestors who’d slap you upside your head if you didn’t mind your manners, and then we pass the fish around like it’s communion. That, right there, is community.

Now, let me hit y’all with the folklore, because you know I can’t tell a story in the 7th Ward without at least one tall tale or legend. So, there’s this old story ‘bout Hunter’s Field. They say on certain Fridays, just before sunset, if you walk past the baseball diamond and past the basketball courts, you might see a shadow of an old fisherman wadin’ through the grass. Some folks call him Big Earl, some call him “The Cornmeal Ghost,” and don’t ask me who named him that I swear, it wasn’t me. Big Earl was supposed to be one of the earliest fish fry organizers back in the day, a man who knew the secret to fryin’ fish so golden even the angels would ask for seconds. Now, legend has it, Big Earl’s spirit still roams Hunter’s Field, sniffin’ the air for the perfect fry. Folks say if your cornmeal ain’t right, you’ll feel a cold breeze on the back of your neck. And if your fish comes out soggy or greasy in the wrong way, he’ll whisper somethin’ sarcastic somethin’ like, “Oh, you call that fryin’?” and just vanish before you can respond. It’s funny, it’s eerie, and it’s NOLA all in one. People swear it’s true, and I’m not gonna argue, ‘cause I been there when the wind smelled like cornmeal and something else, somethin’ holy, somethin’ like your ancestors remindin’ you who you are.

Now, don’t get it twisted this isn’t just about ghosts or fish. It’s about the way a community comes together when someone’s holdin’ the pan, another person’s stirrin’ the coleslaw, and a kid is sneakily droppin’ hushpuppies in the grass. It’s about knowing that the people you see at the fry whether you like ’em or not are part of somethin’ bigger than themselves. That’s the gift, the lesson, the spiritual magic hidden in the grease and the laughter. And let me tell ya, that magic is messy. It ain’t neat or packaged, it ain’t sanitized. It’s sticky and loud and smells like fried catfish, and it don’t care about your Instagram story. It just is, and you either show up for it, or you miss out.

I remember one Friday, couldn’t have been more than a couple weeks ago, the sun sittin’ heavy over Hunter’s Field like it owned the place. I’m standin’ there with my cornmeal, watchin’ the fry pop and hiss, and I see Miss Loraine from down the street the one who always complains that the kids these days ain’t got no respect. She’s talkin’ to Jerome, who ain’t never liked anyone since birth, swear to God, and what happens? They both reach for the same plate of fish, hands touch, they look at each other, and they laugh. Not a sarcastic laugh, mind you, but that real, “well, I guess I can’t hate you today” kinda laugh. And I realized right then, this is exactly what community is. It ain’t just livin’ side by side, it’s bein’ present, bein’ human, bein’ messy together.

And don’t even get me started on the kids. They run around Hunter’s Field like it’s a jungle gym from heaven. One minute they’re playin’ basketball, next they’re chasin’ each other with a bag of French fries, and somehow, magically, no one gets hurt. Well, almost no one. A hushpuppy hit someone in the back of the head one time you think I’m jokin’? Nope. But it’s okay, ‘cause by the time you realize someone got bonked, they’re laughin’ too. It’s tradition, it’s community, it’s the spice in the gumbo of our lives. And if you think that ain’t spiritual, then you just ain’t been to a proper 7th Ward fish fry.

Now, some folks might ask, “Why all this fuss over fish? Why not just have a crawfish boil?” And let me tell you, I hear ya. Crawfish is tasty, don’t get me wrong. But a fish fry? That’s intimate. That’s personal. You can sit down, take a plate in your hands, and feel connected not just to the people around you, but to the ones who fried that fish before you, and the ones who will fry fish long after you gone. There’s a lineage in cornmeal, if you pay attention. There’s history in the hushpuppies. There’s wisdom in the coleslaw, even if it’s store-bought and ain’t exactly homemade. You just gotta notice. And most people don’t notice too busy scrollin’, too busy complainin’, too busy ignorin’ the smell of heaven floatin’ past the expressway.

And y’all better believe Circle Food Store plays a part in all this. Folks walk in, gettin’ their fixins’ for the fry, jawin’ with the owner about who’s got the best catfish recipe, and they leave feelin’ like they done been somewhere that’s bigger than the grocery aisles, bigger than the 7th Ward streets. Circle ain’t just a store. It’s a landmark, a witness to history, a place where the legacy of Black entrepreneurship and community pride lives. And when you take that food home, when you fry that fish in cornmeal just right, you’re part of the legacy too. You’re part of the story. You’re part of the laughter, the arguments, the hissin’ grease, and the whispered lessons from Big Earl.

See, I told y’all this story was factual but fictional. Ain’t nobody seen Big Earl, but I swear, when you fry right, you can feel him hoverin’ somewhere between the steam and the smell, smirkin’, like he done told you he’s watchin’ and you better not mess it up. That’s the beauty of New Orleans. Facts and folklore coexist, side by side like neighbors who can’t stand each other but will save each other’s house from a flood. That’s the kind of community that heals. That’s the kind of community that sticks. That’s the kind of community we all need to be, if we want generations to come to know what it means to belong somewhere sacred, even if sacred smells like grease and hot cornmeal.

By the time the fry winds down, the sun is gone, the kids are tired, and the adults are finally sittin’ down with their plates, there’s a rhythm in the air. It’s not music, though you might hear a trumpet wail somewhere off in the distance. It’s not a sermon, though there’s wisdom drip-droppin’ in the laughter and conversation. It’s the rhythm of people showin’ up for each other. And if you’re lucky enough to be part of it, you feel it deep in your bones, in your belly, in your heart. You feel the connection, the love, the history, the resilience. You feel that you are part of something bigger, something holy. You feel that, and maybe just maybe you understand why we fry our fish in cornmeal and why we pass the plates around with hands that shake a little from laughter and tears and gratitude.

So, if you ever find yourself wanderin’ down N. Claiborne or St. Bernard, smellin’ that golden cornmeal, hearin’ the sizzle and pop of fry grease, know this: it ain’t just food. It ain’t just tradition. It’s the heartbeat of a community that refuses to forget its history, refuses to let division take over, refuses to let generations go by without knowin’ they belong. And if you ain’t part of it yet, come on in. There’s a plate for you, whether you like it or not. And don’t worry Big Earl might watchin’, but he’s merciful when the fish’s golden. Just don’t mess up the cornmeal, now.

And that’s the thing about community, about Hunter’s Field, about Circle Food Store, about all the laughter, arguments, and stories told over fried fish. It’s messy, it’s sticky, it’s loud, it’s sacred, it’s funny, it’s sarcastic, it’s beautiful and it heals. It heals because people show up. It heals because we pass plates instead of grudges. It heals because, in a city that’s been through floods, hurricanes, and history that don’t make it easy for anyone, we still know how to sit down and eat together, and recognize that the only way forward is hand in hand, belly full, heart open, and eyes ready for the next Friday, the next fry, the next generation.

So, go ahead, fry your fish in cornmeal. Invite your neighbors, your friends, your cousins, the folks who swear they don’t like you. Laugh with ’em, argue with ’em, teach the kids the proper way to hold a plate. And remember: community is built in moments like these. Sacred, messy, golden moments where the smell of grease mingles with hope, history, and the hum of life itself. That’s how we honor the past. That’s how we nourish the present. And that’s how we make sure the future knows exactly what it means to belong

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