He believes coon meat tastes something like mutton or pork, but to the uneducated pallet, it has the aroma and texture of opossum.
The plate arrives looking like a hillbilly coat of arms: a proud possum shank emblazoned on a shield of grits, flanked by asparagus fleurs-de-lis and chevrons of wild hog tenderloin. "Gusta Plus Possium." ..
All possum. The words trigger an odd reaction in my mouth. It starts with the texture: Fluttering pockets of fat are interleaved throughout the muscle fibers. Rubbery and slick, they bring to mind countless childhood dinners when my parents made me eat the fat from my pork chops. Then there's the aftertaste: that feral, faintly glandular presence rising through the sauce. This is an ancient animal, it tells me, one that was scurrying through primeval underbrush long before my ancestors, or their taste buds, had even evolved.
"Coon or rabbit. God put them there to eat. When men get hold of animals he blows them up and then he blows up. Fill 'em so full of chemicals and steroids it ruins the people. It makes them sick. Like the pigs on the farm. They's 3 months old and weighing 400 pounds. They's all blowed up. And the chil'ren who eat it, they's all blowed up. Don't make no sense."
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