In the early '70s I went on lots of trips, field trips sort of, just to poke around, to see what was happening outside of New York, back out there in America....
It seems like the middle of the night. I wake up suddenly and peer out from under my rock ledge. The fire has burned down to coals and it's dark in the woods. I hear a rustle and wait for my eyes to adjust to the blackness. From my low vantage point, I can just make out the butt of a musket and a pair of cracked, spatula-shaped shoes. I crawl out of my sleeping bag and the rest of the figure looms into view: male, approximately 60 years old, 140 pounds, black hair, tight sweatshirt. Armed with what appears to be a musket. A minute or so passes. Finally, I hear a voice. "We eat critters."
I don't know what to say, so more time passes.
"We eat critters," he repeats. "Possum. Squirrel. Rabbits. That's what."
Suddenly I understand. He's out hunting; night food.
The man's name is Mr. Taylor and he is 22 years old. He invites me back to the house ("next holler") where he lives with Mrs. Taylor, also 22, and their 4 children: Rhonda, Jim, Jack, and (oddly enough) Jim. There used to be two more Taylors but last summer they fell down one of the holes left by Exxon's systematic strip-mining. Now that certain kinds of low-grade coal can be converted into oil, companies are re-opening mines that were sealed "forever" 75 years ago. Holes were drilled and then left uncovered. Dense brush quickly camouflaged the holes. The holes were deep, vertical, straight down, their sides as slippery as intestines. "I could see the little uns out in the field and then I couldn't see them no more," explained Mrs. Taylor, recalling the incident.
Mostly we sat on the porch, Mr. Taylor, Mrs. Taylor, and me, watching it rain and making small talk. Every time the rain stops for a minute, Mr. Taylor jumps up and trots to the back of the house. We can hear intermittent hacking sounds from the tobacco patch. Then he reappears, his work done for the moment. We talk slowly. Every sentence seems to end the same way, on a kind of upswing.
"Rain's letting up. Don't you think, Rhonda?"
Twenty or thirty second go by.
"Yup."
"Think it's time to check the pot. Don't you, Momma?"
"Yup."
I follow Rhonda into the cabin. Every few seconds she opens a large pot. Steam billows out. Inside, there is a large piece of grayish meat, swollen and prickly, bobbing up and down in the water. "Possum," says Rhonda, stirring it. "Looks done." It is the consistency of waterlogged shredded wood. We fish it out, then start to make the biscuits and gravy. "Red eye gravy. Yup. That's the secret," says Rhonda. She adds a pot of yesterday's coffee, stirs in some corn meal. We pour this over the possum and then ("because it's Sunday") we get out a rusty can of maple syrup and drizzle it over the whole thing.
"That's the secret. Maple syrup. That's the secret ingredient," Rhonda whispers. "Don't tell anyone."
----------------------------------------------------
I guess Laurie Anderson did tell, when she released this story back in 1979. As for the description of cooked possum, I have to back her up on it after having watched Steve-O's Don't Try This at Home, in which he ate a few critters himself. The meat was "falling right off the bone," but uhh not in a good way...
It seems like the middle of the night. I wake up suddenly and peer out from under my rock ledge. The fire has burned down to coals and it's dark in the woods. I hear a rustle and wait for my eyes to adjust to the blackness. From my low vantage point, I can just make out the butt of a musket and a pair of cracked, spatula-shaped shoes. I crawl out of my sleeping bag and the rest of the figure looms into view: male, approximately 60 years old, 140 pounds, black hair, tight sweatshirt. Armed with what appears to be a musket. A minute or so passes. Finally, I hear a voice. "We eat critters."
I don't know what to say, so more time passes.
"We eat critters," he repeats. "Possum. Squirrel. Rabbits. That's what."
Suddenly I understand. He's out hunting; night food.
The man's name is Mr. Taylor and he is 22 years old. He invites me back to the house ("next holler") where he lives with Mrs. Taylor, also 22, and their 4 children: Rhonda, Jim, Jack, and (oddly enough) Jim. There used to be two more Taylors but last summer they fell down one of the holes left by Exxon's systematic strip-mining. Now that certain kinds of low-grade coal can be converted into oil, companies are re-opening mines that were sealed "forever" 75 years ago. Holes were drilled and then left uncovered. Dense brush quickly camouflaged the holes. The holes were deep, vertical, straight down, their sides as slippery as intestines. "I could see the little uns out in the field and then I couldn't see them no more," explained Mrs. Taylor, recalling the incident.
Mostly we sat on the porch, Mr. Taylor, Mrs. Taylor, and me, watching it rain and making small talk. Every time the rain stops for a minute, Mr. Taylor jumps up and trots to the back of the house. We can hear intermittent hacking sounds from the tobacco patch. Then he reappears, his work done for the moment. We talk slowly. Every sentence seems to end the same way, on a kind of upswing.
"Rain's letting up. Don't you think, Rhonda?"
Twenty or thirty second go by.
"Yup."
"Think it's time to check the pot. Don't you, Momma?"
"Yup."
I follow Rhonda into the cabin. Every few seconds she opens a large pot. Steam billows out. Inside, there is a large piece of grayish meat, swollen and prickly, bobbing up and down in the water. "Possum," says Rhonda, stirring it. "Looks done." It is the consistency of waterlogged shredded wood. We fish it out, then start to make the biscuits and gravy. "Red eye gravy. Yup. That's the secret," says Rhonda. She adds a pot of yesterday's coffee, stirs in some corn meal. We pour this over the possum and then ("because it's Sunday") we get out a rusty can of maple syrup and drizzle it over the whole thing.
"That's the secret. Maple syrup. That's the secret ingredient," Rhonda whispers. "Don't tell anyone."
----------------------------------------------------
I guess Laurie Anderson did tell, when she released this story back in 1979. As for the description of cooked possum, I have to back her up on it after having watched Steve-O's Don't Try This at Home, in which he ate a few critters himself. The meat was "falling right off the bone," but uhh not in a good way...
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
They're not all that different from escargot. I figure if you're eating slugs, though, you probably don't have the means to get garlic butter.
They get really big, here.. Like 9 inches?
i hate going to movie theaters. and it's not just because i can't smoke, like everyone's always accusing me of.
i'll email you an address soon. i don't want to send you my current one if i'm just going to be moving in the next week or so- i don't know. uhg. buying a house is no fun.