The tale is fishy, even if viewed through a fish-eye lens. (As is the three-part holiday set in the Notes From The Beat.) On Good Friday, I was back to going Lutheran, which is what I grew up as, since no fish was to be found. Taco Tuesday, typically, is on the other side of the week. But hey, on this day even the ailing pope skipped his usual walk through the park of the dozen holy stations, or to a distant dining room. So there’s hope for the rest of us?

This is the Thank God It’s Good Friday that was.
Or was it …
Where in the holy mackerel was the fish? Can we take a stab at salmon with our silverware? Where’s the beef takes on even more importance. Best take in the choir at left, as it thus becomes important, too.
So I start with Wendy’s, a block or two down. They had hawked a breakfast burrito on their not so chilly outdoor sign. Bean burrito, no. It was heavy on Applewood bacon. And no fish offering, even walleye, on their five screens.
I ordered it anyway, just past brunch-time. But they were out, as breakfast had passed. So this was much like a fast. But even at the next place referenced, given in a small basket and wrapped much like at Christmas, there would be Easter eggs aplenty, along with a single boiled and then decorated egg, and one that was just plastic but filled with more candy, to mess up your fasting blood sugar.
Back at my dad’s nursing home, for fish, and not one run by nuns, but maybe by Thrivent, I swore I saw some gravy with some lumps of meat on a plate or two, at lunch, (to be speared by a trident?) But for dinner, a ray bit of hope as we smelled — or smelt as it is in the annual northern Wisconsin spawning run and followup feast of about this time — fried stuff from two rooms away. (Mom the consummate cook said this joke was too bad to tell.) Could there be fish, soon, even called calamari, if the chicken was checked at the locked door.
I guess they cast their net on the wrong side of the boat, even on this day, as Jesus was otherwise very importantly occupied. And the pope was feeling a bit too punk for too much prayer, unfortunately, so he also cut short his usual Good Friday activities, and did not do the Stations of the Cross walk. At least he had a good reason. So, what we were smelling was more beef chunks. Braised? And the next day, Saturday, it was tacos with two small churros for your sugar level, although my mom did find a fast food fish sandwich, via McDonald’s this time, that was way too big to call it fasting. Tartar sauce pushed it over the limit. It did give dad something other then Tex-Mex, if only for a few bites, like nibbles on a fishing line.
But more hope, as a sign for an Old School supper club noted that they on Easter Sunday will continue serving
brunch-like fare, with multiple forms of fish to be found too, I’m sure, until 5 p.m. Its got to stay until 5 p.m. somewhere.