Remember back in the day when frozen fish sticks were simply frozen fish sticks.
I remember them at school lunch.
I never had a problem with them.
If memory serves, I think I kind of liked them.
And honestly, I kind of like them today.
And I’m a grown ass man and everything.
But that was before I knew about the politics and rivalry and what I imagine was all out war within the fish stick world.
Back in the day, and even today, there were two camps. Sure there might be several local tribes, but neither would compete with the two giant heavyweights.
But I didn’t care about the camps. I just wanted fish sticks.
But I imagine that among parents, it was quite the heated debate.
You either trusted the Gorton’s Fisherman or you bought Mrs. Paul’s.
There was no middle ground.
The Gorton’s guy stood there in that yellow raincoat looking like he’d just wrestled a nor’easter into submission. You didn’t question him. The slogan literally told you what to do.
“Trust the Gorton’s Fisherman.”
Not “consider his opinion.”
Not “hear him out.”
Trust him.
For he was the maritime authority.
This man spent his life getting pounded by thirty-foot waves and somehow found time to recommend frozen fish products.
Mrs. Paul’s came at things differently.
She wasn’t battling storms. She wasn’t hauling nets.
She was somebody’s mother. Or grandmother. Or aunt. Nobody was quite sure.
But she looked like she’d hand you a plate of fish sticks and ask if you were eating enough vegetables.
And she probably made her own ketchup.
And America was forced to choose.
Did you trust the grizzled fisherman who harvested the fish?
Or did you trust the nice lady who probably knew how long to cook it?
These are important questions.
But they seemed unimportant when you were just standing there with a tray waiting for your fish sticks and hoping there was still enough ketchup.
I honestly don’t remember if one tasted better than the other.
I now know that there was an ongoing cold war being fought in supermarket freezer aisles across America.
Parents picked sides.
Kids didn’t pick sides too much – we just wanted fish sticks.
And neither fish stick had any idea it had become part of a national rivalry.
As kids, we didn’t know anything about quality, ingredients, or nutrition. We just knew there were two boxes in the freezer section and somehow one of them was “ours.”
One was more yellow and one was more green.
The fisherman had that weather-beaten, “I’ve seen things” look.
Mrs. Paul seemed like she’d remind you to wear a jacket because it was chilly outside.
Looking back, it’s funny that America’s frozen fish industry apparently decided the best marketing strategy was:
“Trust the guy who catches the fish.”
versus
“Trust the lady who cooks the fish.”
But every time I walk past the frozen food section and see that fisherman staring back at me, I can’t help wondering:
Did he ever actually meet Mrs. Paul?
And if they did meet, who won?
Sure, in a fair fight, the money goes on the crusty aged rugged fisherman. But would he ever actually lay a hand on the lovable Mrs. Paul?
Or was the lovable Mrs. Paul just an act?
I wouldn’t want to mess with the Gorton’s fisherman on a dark night, on a dock out in the middle of nowhere
The man wrestled storms for a living.
Mrs. Paul appears to have spent her time making sure everyone had enough tartar sauce.
But appearances can be deceiving.
Maybe the fisherman wasn’t tough at all.
Maybe he was exhausted, cold, and just wanted a nap.
Maybe Mrs. Paul had spent thirty years settling disputes at church potlucks and could dismantle a grown man with a single disappointed look.
So now I spend my adult years, wondering how many households had heated debates over fish sticks that were ultimately made from fish that never knew there was a rivalry in the first place.
And the battle wages on today.
Great ….. now I’m hungry ….
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