christa jones

As soon as I set foot on my father’s front step, luggage in tow, he reaches over for a hug and a peck on the cheek. “How are ya, my darlin’? ” asks Dad. It has been ten months since I’ve been back to Newfoundland to see him from my home on the Canadian prairies.

On an exhale of cigarette smoke, he says “Paula was here.” The words are delivered quietly, casually. But his eyes crinkle at the edges, just a little.

Yes! I think to myself, mentally fist pumping the air. Dropping my bags, I dash into his kitchen and see it sitting on the counter: a disposable roasting pan, tightly wrapped in tinfoil. That sight has become a staple, a tradition, these past bunch of years each time I come home.

Inside is Fisherman’s Brewis (pronounced bruise). It is a completely beige dish with some blobs of white mixed through. To an outsider, it might look unappetizing, but I can’t wait to dig in. My mouth is already watering.

Fish and Brewis and Fisherman’s Brewis are essentially the same dish, except the former has the components separate (cod, brewis, potato, optional onions, and “scrunchions”) whereas with the latter, they’re all combined together. It’s a traditional meal of the island, typically made with salt cod, although I prefer it with fresh fish. It predates refrigeration, going back to at least the 1700s. Next to Jigg’s dinner, this meal is classic outport Newfoundland.

I’ve been eating Fish and Brewis my whole life. My mom has never been a fan, so, as a child, whenever my grandparents were cooking it, they would invite me over. I either rode my bike or ran the ten minutes to their house. I never missed an opportunity for my favourite meal.

The first time I had ever tasted my Aunt Paula’s Fisherman’s Brewis, I was an adult. I’d been visiting my Nan—my dad’s mom—and her house was always the family hub. Nan was growing frail at that point, so my many aunts would take turns dropping off food.

“Holy cow, Paula. This is amazing!” I recall telling her on my first bite. “How’d you get yours to taste this good?”

At the time, she just laughed off my compliment. Now we both remember my love of her cooking, especially of this particular dish. When Nan passed, we lost our central meeting spot. But we still have Fisherman’s Brewis, and Paula drops it off to my dad’s every time she knows I’m coming.

While made of humble ingredients, it’s not quick to assemble. Like other cultures around the world, traditional cooking takes time. First, Paula takes four cakes of hard bread (or “tack”) and submerges them in water overnight. They look like small pale dinner rolls, but are dense and rigid, like rocks, and could easily crack a tooth. These cakes form the brewis. Once soaked, they have a soft, almost velvety, texture.

Next, she takes a package of salt fat back pork and chops it into tiny bits that look like teeth and pops it under her broiler. About halfway through, she adds a chopped onion to the tray, and roasts it some more. Once the fat pork is broiled to a golden crisp, it forms the delicious scrunchions. The cod fish and brewis boil separately for twenty minutes, then all the ingredients are combined. She also adds a good amount of boiled potatoes because she knows that, like her, I love them.

Glancing over my shoulder, I start to ask Dad if he wants some, but I see his head through the porch window, cigarette dangling from his lips. He has left me to explore the disposable tray in private. I peel back the foil and scoop a heaping amount onto the largest plate I can find.

The bottom of the tray is still a warm, so it couldn’t have been too long ago she was here. I have to put it in the microwave for just a minute. While it is reheating, I grab some Eversweet margarine for the table. Once ready, I sit and dab some margarine throughout and wait for it to melt. I let the smell of fish and potato, of home, waft up my nostrils. I laugh to myself as I picture someone seeing this meal for the first time, imagining them missing the beauty of generations that these beige and white blobs hold. Then, I dig in.

Fisherman's Brewis

christa jones