My husband (a Yankee from Buffalo) thinks that the concept of "fish camps" is strange and oh-so-Southern.
I adore fish camps.
As a child, my family used to go to one called The Old Mill Stream. It was on a beautiful creek (or, um, a "stream", I guess) in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Everyone sat together at rustic old picnic tables on screened porches with the stream running beside it. (Oh, the sound of that stream!)
The table was covered with newspapers and the boiled shrimp was dumped right out onto the table.
Except for boiled shrimp - EVERYTHING at a fish camp is FRIED, FRIED, FRIED.
There are always unlimited refills on giant pitchers of the best sweet tea in the world at fish camps. (And, by the way, a REAL fish camp never serves alcohol - so forget the beer.)
The best part is the baskets of fried hushpuppies. Sometimes those big round kind and sometimes those little sausage -shaped kind.
But always SOOOOOO good.
So, of course, when I went to North Carolina I had to go to a fish camp.
And when you go to a fish camp, you have to eat fried catfish.
(By the way....I'm a little over-dressed for a fish camp....but I went there straight from the airport! I always dress well when I fly because once my family was flying to Ireland and got chosen to be upgraded to first class based solely on the way we were dressed. It has never happened since, but you never know.....)
I also decided to rent a car and head to Waxhaw (North Carolina) - in search of a spot to retire about the year 2048.
Guess what?
Waxhaw is the birthplace of Andrew Jackson.
Who knew?
And of course, I had to check out the library.
