Last week I heard two words that jettisoned me right back to high school — fish fry. Thanks to a heart attack that my father had suffered at a school football game and our family’s subsequent dietary restrictions, I grew up eating a lot of dry, unadorned fish dinners. Several times a season, though, we would slip out of these tight restraints and head off to a Friday night fish fry. Hosted by local churches and the Telephone Pioneers of America, of which my engineer dad was a devoted member, these events were the highpoint of our otherwise drab seafood diet. What I remember most about those fish fries are the oil-stained, white paper plates that collapsed beneath the weight of their contents and the contents themselves. The cargo varied slightly, with sides of coleslaw, mac and cheese, pierogies or french fries, but always contained triangles of crunchy, golden batter encasing fillets of white fish. Paired with tartar sauce, malt vinegar and ketchup, the crisp, deep-fried fish was, in my mind, outrageously delicious. Today I …