I found the answer for sheepshead.
Cindy and I have been debating that fish for a couple years now. She doesnít like them, and I do, kind of.
ìWhy donít you bring me back some sunnies?î sheíll ask when I come home with a stringer full of freshwater drum. Thatís the fancy name for sheepshead.
ìI wasnít fishing for sunnies,î Iíll say.
ìWhat were you fishing for?î
ìBass.î
ìWhy donít you bring me some bass then?î
ìI didnít catch any bass, I caught sheepshead.î
ìAnd why is that?î
ìBecause thatís what I caught.î
That kind of ends it, until the circular conversation returns, as I seems to do.
Thatís the thing: The river is teeming with sheepshead. Way more than the good old days. My theory is that one of their favorite foods is the zebra mussel. The river is now full of those pesky things, hence the river is full of sheepshead.
I could throw them back, but I feel like Iím doing my good deed taking them home and using them. The martyr syndrome is close to the surface in the Heiller clan.
Iíll admit they are not the tastiest fish, but I fry them and eat them anyway. The smell it leaves in the house, thatís not so great either. And the tidbits of fish that stick in the sink or go into the compost bucket make their presence known a day or two later.
All this brought war to Heiller Territory about three months ago. Thatís when Cindy declared our kitchen a Sheepshead-Free Zone.We argued a bit, but I could see she was serious. ìPick your battles,î I always say. So I moved to the grill on the deck and grilled the sheepshead there. They werenít bad either, and as long as the wind was blowing from the right direction, Cindy was happy.
I even pickled a batch, and they got decent reviews.
But now Iíve got the sheepshead solution. My brother, Glenn, found a smoker at the end of someoneís driveway when he was visiting Mom a few weeks ago. It was heading for the landfill, and Glenn had heard me mulling the idea of smoked sheepshead, so it was a perfect fit.
First I called John Holzwarth for advice. He seems to know a little bit about everything, and sure enough, he had some good tips: Mix the brine till it floats an egg. Rub a little brown sugar on the fish. Use hickory, Dave, and cut it when the sap is up.
I did all those things. Took out every sheepshead in the freezer. Cut the pieces up, soaked them good. Let the fish dry, sugared it up. Lit the charcoal, laid the pieces in the Charbroil H2O Smoker, filled it with hickory, and smoked it for about six hours.
It looked pretty, all golden brown. And the flavor: delicious! Well, Mom thinks itís a little too salty, and it could be smokier. Iíll give her that. Powerful smell too, Cindy noted, the smell that follows you around if you donít wash your hands with soap and water after eating a piece.
I gave a little piece to Rosie the Daschund, and she liked it too, although it gave her a slight sneezing fit. Cindy said she wasnít sure if the dogs were going to eat it or roll in it.
ìThatís an insult,î I said.
ìNo, thatís sheepshead,î she replied. Sheís got a sense of humor, that woman.
Guess I better go fishing soon.

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