Bill Mardis, Editor Emeritus
Friends, I ain’t never seed nothin’ lack hit an’ your humble reporter wuz raised so fur out in the kountry that we had to go t’oward town to hunt.
A wider woman out c’here in the county sent your humble reporter a fine receet to cook possum. Hit makes me so hongry that my tongue flaps so hard hit nearly beets my brains out.
I kan’t tell you’ins who this good woman is. She thurtened to sot up a shoe shop in my hind end if’n I put her name in the paper. Bein’ able to cook up a fine meal ’uv possum lack that wud have hafe the crippled-up ol’ men in the county tryin’ to put their feet under her table, she sed.
“I had one ol’ man an’ I shore don’t need no more,” she deklared. “All he ever did wuz sot ’round an’ burp an’ skratch. He wudn’t hit a lick at nothin’. All I did wuz wait on him.”
A’bout kookin’ that possum, she sed the furst thang is to ketch the possum. If’n you’ins wanna brang out the best flavor, don’t git m’patient. Put the possum in a pen an’ feed hit on milk an’ cereal fur ’bout 10 days.
Then, a’cordin’ to this wider woman, you’in scald that possum jest lack you’ins wuz killin’ a hawg. Take hit outta the hot water, scrape an’ pour cold water on hit.
“Take out them red glands in the small ’uv the back an’ under each foreleg,” the wider woman sed. She din’t say whut the red glands ’er fur an’ your humble reporter wuz ’fraid to ast. Jest do as she sed.
“Parboil the possum fur a hour and then bake hit jest lack you wud a piece ’uv pork,” she sed.
Turnip greens tastes awful good with possum, this wider woman sed, but your humble reporter wud much druther have a good mess ’uv sweet taters. The harder times git the better a mess ’uv possum an’ sweet taters taste.
Times ’er hard, friends. Thar ain’t no question ’bout hit. But hit ain’t as bad as them talkin’ heads on the tellyvision say. They say hits just lack the Great Dee’pression.
Friends, that jest ain’t so. Your humble reporter lived thru the Great Dee’pression. Most ’uv us still gits our check an’ the givermint has promised us sume ’uv that bail out money. We din’t have no money a’tall when I wuz growin’ up. A nikel looked big as a wagon wheel.
Talk ’bout feedin’ milk to a possum, the only milk we’ins ever had wuz blue john an’ we krumbled cornbread in that an’ eat hit. We wudn’t give no milk to no dang possum.
I ain’t had no mess ’uv possum an’ sweet taters in I don’t know how long. Thar ’er so many new four-lane an’ six-lane roads ’round c’here that most ’uv our possums kan’t make hit a’crost the road. They becume road kill under a 18-wheeler.
Friends, I ain’t nockin’ road kill. Hit don’t taste bad a’tall if’n you gather the ree’mains a’fore they lay thar too long. Road kill tastes better on cloudy cool days when the sun ain’t shinin’.
Penny Starnes sed he lacks snipe better’n possum. If’n any ’uv you good wimmen out thar has a receet fur kookin’ a snipe, send hit to me an’ Penny. We’ll put hit in the paper if’n hit sounds good.
By the way, Penny sez he’s feelin’ better. He’s outta the hors’pistal now an’ sounds more perky than he did.
