Sopping a Possum

My mama’s classic saying, ‘I’ll eat anything that won’t eat me first’ has been sort of a part of family tradition, at least on her side of the family. We probably owe it all to Papa, the matriarch and critter killer extraordinaire. Papa, born in the year 1900 lived through the hard times, those days when you were lucky to have a decent meal on the table. He didn’t hunt or fish for sport. Anything bagged or hooked provided food for those not too proud to partake of what bounty had been prepared in the stew pot, skillet or roasting oven. There was no waste from any fresh kill, that’s for sure.

It’s funny how some people will turn their noses up to wild game but will not blink an eye when it comes to store bought meat. Did they forget their ancestry? Man has lived off the land since the beginning of time. Domesticated animals are just ones that used to be wild once upon a time; they just don’t know it now, having gotten used to the good life on the farms. Eat, drink, poop and eat and drink and poop some more, life is good, until that appointment with the slaughter house. At least wild critters have a fighting chance, some dignity to their dying. It’s part of the natural food chain and law of survival of the fittest. Grocery stores have not always existed as a cultural theater for eats. Think about those pioneers, those settlers, folks who took pride in foraging for their meat, whether on land or in streams and lakes.

I grew up seeing nothing odd about the various critters that graced our plates. And contrary to old wives tales most didn’t taste like chicken. And for the record, if you’ll eat chicken, you should be willing to eat anything. Spend a little time around a hen house or chicken yard and you’ll understand what I’m saying. Ole narrow head will eat just about anything that he can shove down his pecker. Pigs are no better. I’ve heard it said that deer are too pretty to eat. Does that mean cows are ugly and it’s okay to eat ugly? A possum is far from pretty but most folks don’t stand in line waiting their favorite possum part. And yes, possum has graced Papa’s table, roasted with taters and onions. Toss in some cathead biscuits for sopping and man you’ve arrived. What about some BBQ coon? Davey Crockett wore a coon skin hat. You don’t think he just tossed away the raccoon carcass do you? I forgot, raccoons are pretty, aren’t’ they? I must confess; partaking in coon was tougher than most for me because I’ve had friends who tamed raccoons for pets. They are very intelligent and quite entertaining.

While possum and coon were not mainstays on Papa’s menu, if picking s were slim, they’d have to do. There is no shortage of either in the wilds. Neither fare too well crossing roadways. The chicken has nothing on them when it comes to road kill opportunities. Armadillo, possum on the half shell mark the roadways in Florida and Georgia. Don’t worry; I’m not going to promote eating road kill. That being said, fresh road kill like deer is hard to pass on. Squirrels, ole Peter cotton tail, quail and doves found their way to the table more often than not. Squirrels made good dumplings and were also excellent fried, as was rabbit. Everyone in the family loved both. Doves nor quail really ever did much for me; not because I didn’t like the taste, but more so because there wasn’t enough meat on their bones. Skinning and cleaning the little fury critters were an art form. Papa had it down pat, two nails strategically placed on an old fence post; he’d be finished in record time. I’ll skip the details for those squeamish about this sort of thing.

Grappling under the river bank with his fishing pal, Papa seldom came up empty. No rod, no reel, no hook, no net; real men just reached under the bank, felt around until they located their prey. Papa could tell the difference between a snake, a fish and turtle just by touch and feel. Asked once what he would do if he latched onto a snake; he just said, ‘Hon, I’d throw it on the bank and keep looking.’ I’ve seen some of those snapping turtles; mean temperamental buggers. Still, I can say I never met a turtle I didn’t like, in a stew or fried. Boy that is some good eating and you pay a hefty price if you order turtle at a restaurant.

Papa was a fisherman, not a sports fisherman; he was a man’s fisherman. He didn’t believe in catching something and then setting it free. If it was caught it was ate as he would put it. Forget trolling for bass. Nothing beat fishing for brim, crappie or mouth watering catfish. You didn’t stop unless they quit biting or you ran out of bait. Mama and I fought over the catfish tails, battered and crunchy. If either of us was within striking distance of the black skillet, we’d break off those tails before they ever reached the table. It wasn’t uncommon for a platter of catfish to arrive tailless. Good eating size was about five to six inches long. The big ones were filleted. Half the fun was eating around those pointy little bones. Only the skeletal remains were left if done right.

Papa never was a deer hunter but as an adult I was a fair shot. Parents and grandparents alike couldn’t get their fill of battered cube steak or a venison roast. Papa could whip up some mean deer hash. Heck he could convert most any form of meat into hash. My wife was always fearful of eating his hash, never knowing whether a goat, deer or some other wild thing might have been used. For the record, is a goat pretty? All kidding aside, he could make the best traditional hash using chicken, pork and beef, all ground with a hand grinder attached to a table specifically designed to affix the grinder. I inherited the grinder, the table and the recipe but not the gift to make hash. A friend and coworker from Pittsburg just couldn’t grasp the concept of hash. He said ‘why would someone take a perfectly good piece of meat and grind it and mush it up and then flop a gob of it with a spoon on a slice of bread on a plate?’ Kirk changed his mind after I took him to my grandparent’s house to taste it firsthand. I think he even had a second helping.

Papa John could have had the perfect hunting-fishing-cooking show; preparing his vittles to challenge ones’ taste buds and knowledge of the menu’s origin. Scrambled brains and eggs was a breakfast special. We’re talking real cow brains. Those same people, who turned their nose up at eating a pretty deer, now snub eating cow parts. Brains to the tail, all is consumed, even mountain oysters; testicles that is. Leave nothing but the moo. Yep, growing up poor and during hard times makes one appreciate what nature has to offer to feed the hungry. Papa and Granny knew this all too well. Mama grew up on these tasty vittles and it didn’t skip a generation with me.

Foods that my folks used as a mainstay can be quite expensive on menus if you have to pay for them. I for one would give nothing for the experience and lip smacking opportunities provided by a heavy set, balding old man in Red Camel overalls. His life was simple, values true, what you saw was what you got, no put-ons and forever making a lasting impression on an only grandson. “Hon, let’s take these red wigglers and go catch us a mess of catfish at the Fork Shoals dollar a day fish ponds. ’ Now that’s an adventure that deserves its own chapter.