The name ‘crappie’ just doesn’t suit this tasty fish
The English language evolves all the time. For example, the Oxford English Dictionary, our tongue’s most time-honored reference, now recognizes as words modern utterances such as “wassup” and “BFF” (although my spell-checker apparently, as of yet, does not).
If the pop-culturists can distort English, then we outdoor folks can tweak it, too. So, I propose that we change the way we pronounce the name of a popular fish.
Actually, in many parts of the country, they already get it right. The fish is the crappie, a large member of the sunfish family. Although its name is spelled the same everywhere, all across the mid-south and Midwest anglers pronounce the name of this prize as if it were spelled “croppie,” rhyming it with “choppy” or “sloppy.”
For some reason, in our part of the world we rhyme “crappie” with “happy” and “snappy,” no appealing title for one of the best tasting fish you could put on a plate.
Interestingly, in French-influenced north Louisiana, anglers call crappies “sac-a-lait,” which means “sack of milk,” referring to their desirable, mild white flesh.
I started thinking about crappies and how we might show them due respect after they salvaged a recent day outdoors that started out as a hunting trip.
Saturday, Oct. 20, was the last day of both the early muzzleloader deer season and the early duck seasons. Good friend Ron Temple, of Uniontown, and I went out together. Ron went for deer, while I pitched a dozen decoys into the shallow backwaters of a secluded pond nearby, then hid among the cattails in my kayak, hoping that a squad of mallards or wood ducks might drop in for company.
Ron wandered the hills until late morning without even a glance at a deer’s fleeing white tail. And I sat there in the damp chill, surrounded by unsuspecting wetland birds. Red-winged blackbirds clambered through the cattails. Kingfishers dove and caught their fishy breakfast before my eyes. A great blue heron perched on a snag and preened its plumage, occasionally bellowing out the species’ strange “Quonk.” Concealed and motionless, I spied on just about every kind of bird you might expect to see around a local water source — except a duck. Actually, I did see two wood ducks. But wood ducks always seem to know where they’re going. This pair streaked overhead too high for a shot, glanced down at the decoys and kept going unimpressed.
Near noon I gathered my fake ducks, paddled to shore and retrieved a fishing rod from the truck. I caught a half-dozen or so bluegills while I waited for Ron to return from the woods.
Soon I saw the bright orange of his coat approaching through the trees. “I hope you saw more ducks than I did deer,” he quipped on his approach.
Ron cased his rifle and put away his gear, then accepted the fishing rod while I built a fire. Before the smoke curled skyward I heard him summon me from across the pond. “Got a nice one,” he called.
I grabbed a camera and found Ron unhooking a large “slab-side” crappie he’d caught on a white Beetle-Spin jig bait. On the next several casts Ron hooked and landed foot-long, silvery crappies. His success enticed me to grab another rod. I tied on an identical lure and we both enjoyed steady success. Crappies like to gather in schools around sunken logs, piers or other structure, especially in the fall. Where you hook one crappie, the same presentation is likely to fool others.
This time, we released all the crappies we caught, but that’s not our general habit. These fish are both prolific and delicious. Many times we’ve fried up a mess on the water, or taken them home to enjoy with family. Filleted, rolled in beaten egg and cornmeal, then fried golden brown they are among the local outdoors’ select table fare. Another hunting and fishing friend, Duayne, once dubbed them “Laurel Highlands Lobster.”
We fished for awhile, then relaxed by our fire and enjoyed the autumn colors and bracing air. After a respite we fished again and landed more crappies, plus a largemouth bass.
Ron and I were not especially disappointed about not bagging our respective warm-blooded quarry. But it did help our hunter-gatherer pride to savor some “consolation” success catching crappies.
It’s a bit much to expect a name change around here from crappie to the “sac-a-lait” of the Louisiana bayous. But a simple shift of the lips and tongue yields “croppie” instead of “crappie.” For the honor of a fish that soothes the sting of a skunking on an October outing, that seems not too much to ask.