One of my first mentors and friends in food writing was the late Marie Rudisill, whom you may have known as the outrageously frank Fruitcake Lady on Jay Leno’s Tonight Show. Her first piece of advice to me was, “Don’t change your phone number, sugar; half the fun you’re gonna have from this thing is the phone calls you’ll get.”

Of course, this advice was driven home by the fact that I was already getting regular calls from Marie Rudisill—who, while she’d not yet achieved her Fruitcake Lady notoriety, was already a legend among food writers. Her point was, make yourself available; give of yourself; be open to new people, new things, new experiences.

The trouble with that was—and is, I’m not naturally gregarious. I’ll frankly own that it has not always been easy to keep Marie’s advice. However, she was right; some of the loveliest compensation for being pushed into the public eye is that rare, unexpected call or letter that comes out of nowhere to lift the spirit just when you need it most.

Over the years, I’ve had many such calls, letters, and casually scribbled notes, not just from Marie, but from such legends as Nathalie Dupree, Marcella Hazan, and Julia Child. As special as those professional friendships and acquaintances have been, however, nothing has meant more than a friendship that bloomed over a duck.

Specifically, a duck that had been boned, stuffed with a boned chicken, and in turn stuffed into a boned turkey.

One day while minding my own business and tapping away at my computer, a fan email came in from the west coast. The sender’s address was not at all familiar, and sure enough, it turned out to be someone named Dorothy Haase, who I didn’t know from Adam’s housecat, and who had no immediate connection to anyone I knew.

She wanted to know about something called Turducken—which is what they call that unlikely three-bird union. It seemed to her, quite sensibly, that this was an awful lot of work for a rather questionable result. Was there a long tradition for this dish, she wondered, and did people really eat such a thing? Had I ever made it, was it as much trouble as it looked to be, and more to the point, was it worth that trouble?

Frankly, I almost forgot Marie’s advice; the retiring part of me was ready to send off a perfunctory answer that I’d never made such a thing and didn’t plan to start. But then, right at the end of her letter, she reeled me in. Her silly nephew, she said, on no more authority than having once lived in Alabama (where, face it, there are more hunting rifles than cars on the L.A. Freeway), had pompously informed her that Southerners didn’t eat duck, ergo this Turducken thing could not possibly be Southern.

The Southern Food Historian leapt out of its cage—talons extended—and was not going back. Those talons hit the keys and fired off a long, detailed response. In case you’re interested (and even if you aren’t), the gist of that response was that Turducken is indeed a real Southern thing, though not of long-standing tradition. It’s the creation of Louisiana Cajun Chef Paul Prudhomme, which is about as Southern as it gets.

As for Southerners not eating duck—with or without a chicken in its belly and a turkey wrapped around it—then why, I wrote testily, did her idiot nephew think there were gun racks on two out of every three pickups in the South?

Thus began a correspondence and friendship that is now more than four years old. After all that time, we still, like George Bernard Shaw and Mrs. Campbell, address one another as Mrs. Haase and Mr. Fowler. Yet hers is a friendship that I treasure far more deeply than colleagues who presume to be a lot more familiar.

What we share is nothing spectacular: there are occasional special moments, but mostly it is the ordinary details of our lives. She writes of a life filled with a dozen or so pet rabbits, two lovely grown daughters, a spouse known between us only as The Husband, and an almost insatiable appetite for reading and cooking. Occasionally, she will ask about an unfamiliar ingredient or cooking method. I answer those questions when I can, fess up when I can’t, and share my own mundane details, along with bits of writing for her reaction, and sometimes a recipe for her to test and pass judgment over.

I don’t know exactly what she gets out of these exchanges, but I’m inspired by her plainspoken common sense, her clean instincts about good food and writing, and more than once have been led by her adventurous spirit to explore something I’ve never tried, or to rediscover an old, neglected favorite.

One of our memorable exchanges was about fish tacos, which for one reason or another, I’d never eaten. Had it not been for Mrs. H, I probably would never have even thought about them. But when she shared her recipe, it piqued my appetite and my interest. I not only made them, but loved them.

Later, on a day when there weren’t any ripe mangoes to be had, but an avocado in the market yielded temptingly to a squeeze, I made Mrs. H’s recipe my own. She sautéed the fish in a bit of butter; I sometimes use olive oil, but Southerner that I am, I often cut it into fingers, toss it with cornmeal, and pan fry it.

At any rate, those Fish Tacos are a perfect encapsulation of our friendship, and of the way we share and yet go our own way, and then find our way back to sharing again. They are also perfect summer eating. Here is how we both make them.

Fish Tacos, Mrs. Haase’s way: to feed two to four people (depending on their appetite), peel, pit, and chop a large, ripe honey mango and put it in a bowl, or just open a jar of prepared mango and peach salsa. Shred a couple of cups of iceberg lettuce and in a separate bowl toss it with a generous spoonful of Lighthouse brand ranch dressing. Then cut a pound of halibut into half-inch cubes. Warm a tablespoon of butter in a small skillet over medium heat, add the fish, and sauté, tossing, until it is just cooked through, about 2-3 minutes. Season to taste with salt and pepper, transfer it to a bowl, and keep warm. Warm 4 6-inch flour tortillas one at a time in a dry skillet over medium heat, and build each taco as soon as the tortilla is ready. Put a little dressed lettuce into the center of the warm tortilla, top with about 3 tablespoons of fish, and then a generous spoonful of mango, to taste. Fold over, take a bite, and know that you are close to heaven.

Fish Tacos, Mr. Fowler’s way: omit the mango and instead, peel, halve, pit and dice a medium ripe but still firm Haas (no connection) avocado. Toss it with a cup of diced ripe tomato, a quarter cup of diced red onion, a little chopped cilantro, to taste, a whisper of minced garlic, and the juice of a lime. Season with salt, pepper, and if you like, a little diced fresh chili pepper or hot sauce (but don’t go overboard). Put it aside to allow the flavors marry while you finish the rest of the ingredients. I leave off the ranch dressing, especially if I have fried the fish, but you can use it if it suits you. Assemble the tacos as for Mrs. H’s way, topping the fish with the avocado salsa instead of mango.

You know, you don’t have to live on the other side of the country to share your favorite recipes. Through the cooking school, Barbara, David, and I try to bring you the very best of Savannah’s professional cooking community. We would love for you to share some of your favorite recipes in turn.

Who knows? Like Mrs. H, you just might inspire us.