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Closer to the fall, the conditions of any fishing change
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Deceiving freezing
Ponds for the yearning fisherman - a lifesaver, a priority opportunity to take your soul on ice fishing. Seven pikes on the pond in half a day. Small lakes and…

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Rollton Cakes

Nothing, nothing, men, if you try it, you don’t like it – it’ll go to lure …

On this day, there was no bite on Borovskaya, at least on the spinners. But barely hooked on a small yellow-orange twister, as the fishing line resiliently settles, and a live weight hangs on it. Perch! I bring him to the boat and push my son:

– Vanka, the sack! He fusses, pulling out the pressed landing net, then, happily hurrying, brings him under the fish. The specimen, of course, is not a record one, and if you put it bluntly, it’s not a big one, but it’s on its weight and it can break off the thin tip of the ultra-light. At least, I think so, looking at a stunted to pity whip, thinner than a match …

Soon he took another perch. But we already passed it. Such perches, no heavier than three hundred grams, I snagged on the lakes from each cast, tired of this monotonous fishing. How to surprise a pike? “Aglia” didn’t make any impression on the toothy, as if there was no golden triumph of “celebrities”. So – a concussion … I catch a jig with a chewed and once greenish sequin ripper that looks like a ruff or a bull … On the first cast, the fishing line gets heavier and goes to the side. Soon, twenty meters from the boat, a pike jumps out and shakes his head. Ultra-light gently extinguishes her jumps.

While we prolonged the pleasure, delighting ourselves with a highly aesthetic struggle against a tired pike, a puffy blue cloud poured from somewhere like pillows, blew a limp sea-wind, blew a quiet backwater with a wind, and poured a real downpour. The sky cracked, throwing neon lightning bolts. Thunderstorm began. And then Sergey came with Yurkino. They smoked with him in the car, sat cursing at the weather, and then a comrade began to conjure something. He boiled water, gutted a Rollton sachet on a plate, poured boiling water.

– What are you, Serge? – I am surprised. – Is there anything to shake with concentrates? There I cooked the soup from the stew, eat your fingers!

– Uh, wait, take your time. Let the rain end … You will see …

Well, of course, when the cat has nothing to do … Ivan and I are interestedly waiting.

Turning off, a thunderstorm fell over the horizon. Only rare heavy drops fell from the pines. Sergey got out of the car and, having put on tar from dead woods, lit a bonfire among the bricks that served us as a stove for a pot and a kettle. He heated a frying pan on the coals, added oil, poured a good handful of flour into the swollen Rollton, mixed everything, began to sculpt something, and, sentencing him into a beard, spank on the frying pan.

“You have not eaten this yet … And when we were scourged in the forest, we had to suck without bread.” Sometimes there was nothing but vodka, as in “Features of the National Hunt.” Pasta cakes were in the first grade.

I know that Sergei once worked as a geologist, or as a surveyor somewhere in the deep Lukomorye.

“So there is bread and bagels out for tea.”

– Nothing, nothing, men, if you try it, you don’t like it – it’ll go to lure. Vanka throws to fishing rods, – Sergey said.

And I realized that it was not a matter of severe need or special delights, but this is the same nostalgic flight of the soul into warm yesterday.

Soon we were already enthusiastically crunching with Sereginy pancakes-pancakes, drinking cold tea. Even Vanka ate. In fact, he is a desperate squeamish, delicately scrupulous in food. Until recently, he believed that fried chicken legs were shaking from the trees like apples, and when he found out the bitter truth, he stopped eating meat, like a true Tolstoyan, except for two hundred smoked sausages with a wooden hook making an exception.

Sereginy fritters would come down for a civilized breakfast in a private setting.

– Sergey, take note of your recipe, her-her!

– I told you …

And Sergei surprised again. He took Vankin’s catch, probably consisting of hundreds of medium-sized rudd, which his son caught on a fishing rod from the shore, and was not too lazy to clean all this trifle. Then, in the same frying pan, he fried in several stages the whole red-fry small flesh to the state of seeds, when numerous bones were simply not felt and crackled on the teeth together with fish frying. And then it only became clear how we were missing beer from the refrigerator …

At night, a thunderstorm erupted with addiction. She walked until midnight in circles around the tent, hit the ground with broken and branched lightning, continuously and dazzlingly illuminating everything around, and seemed to aim at us. I thought Vanka would be scared, but he only clung to me with a little mouse, looked sternly at the ceiling with shining eyes, and then calmly sniffed, placing his hands under his head.

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