Matter of fact, I was so hungry for mullet I could hear mullet sizzling in the cast-iron frying pan. I could see mullet heaped on a big platter with a bowl of grits and maybe some fresh tomatoes on the side. Yes, I could almost taste mullet.

But the guy behind the counter at the fish market said: "All we got is frozen."

"Frozen mullet's just bait," I said. "They get all mushy when they're frozen."

"You got that right," he said. "I wouldn't eat frozen mullet, either."

Then he went on to tell me something I already knew: Ever since Florida enacted the 1995 law that restricted fishing with gill nets-forcing legions of commercial mullet fishermen to call it quits-getting fresh mullet has become a hit-or-miss proposition. Statewide, he said, the annual mullet haul has dropped from something like 35 million pounds before the net ban to less than 20 million now.

Unfortunately, knowing the latest mullet statistics did nothing to satisfy my hunger for them. All I knew was they were hauling in 20 million tons of mullet a year, and none of it was on my plate.

I went home and got out the cast net. My wife gave me the cast net several years ago, an eight-footer with several pounds of lead weights and probably a quarter-mile of monofilament line woven and tied in such a manner that, thrown properly, it arcs and billows and is beauteous to behold. The wily mullet, surprised by stealth and grace, are captured. Thrown by me, however, the net becomes a mutant shotput. The mullet scatter before it hits the water. Then they just sort of sit there and snicker.

But I was really, really hungry for mullet. So I drove to a likely spot, meaning I drove to a spot where there was a decent chance of finding a school of mullet and absolutely no chance of anyone seeing me throw the cast net.

I have watched accomplished cast netters haul in tubfuls of mullet, and one of their secrets is they hold an edge of the net with their mouth. This allows them to spread the net a little before they throw it. The trick is in the timing. Keep the net in your mouth too long and your new nickname will be Gappy.

You can see where this is going, can't you? You can envision me stalking mullet from atop a seawall along the Caloosahatchee River, spotting a promising school, biting down on the edge of the net, twisting back, then letting it fly. You might have even heard me when the net snagged on a tooth, not enough to yank it loose, but just right for allowing a few of the weights to stray off course and give me a faceful of lead.

The bleeding didn't last all that long. The doctor said I didn't need stitches. And the net? Well, I think I'll keep it. And I think some mullet must be dumber than others. Because when I pulled in the net there was a mullet flopping around in it, looking even more surprised than I was. Or maybe it was the look of mullet humiliation.

The doctor said I should probably avoid eating solid food for a day or two, until my lip had a chance to heal. But the doctor had obviously never experienced mullet hunger. I filleted the mullet, rolled it in corn meal and fried it in peanut oil. Yes, it hurt to chew. But it hurt good.