![]() |
Cooking Bachelor Style If you grimace at the idea of eating opossum, I must tell you that Red won the 2003 Wolverine Mountain Best Chef ribbon in the “Best Recipe for Wild Meat” category. Outside of Tennessee, however, opinions change drastically about this recipe in its purest form. Red lives alone at the summit of Wolverine Mountain in the northwest corner of Tennessee in a tiny cabin he calls home. He lives off the land and brews his own variety of adult beverages. And he raises opossums for food. I remember my last excursion to Wolverine Mountain to see old Red. The season had its sights set on fall, and Red was occupied trying to get his two adult opossums to copulate so he’d have enough marsupial meat for the winter. Baby opossums are born 13 days after conception, and since an average litter size is eight or nine young, Red figured he needed to have the adults mate at least three times before the first snowfall. Beating the first snowfall was crucial since opossum sexual organs are subject to frostbite. Having lived my life calculating times between sexual encounters, I did the math. It was the last part of July; the first average snowfall on Wolverine Mountain takes place around September 28. That gave the critters nearly 59 days to produce three liters. Because the female may need a couple days off between birthing sessions, I deduced that 53 days was plenty of time for Red to achieve his goal. “Hell, Red, 53 days is an eternity in bachelor-speak,” I said jokingly. “You don’t understand,” Red replied, prodding the male opossum with a stick. “Watch what happens when he gets near her. She reacts just like Doris used to.” Doris was the woman Red almost married. I understood better when the male approached its mate. She first hissed and then bared her teeth as if ready to rip out an organ. When his advances continued, the female fell into a catatonic state and appeared dead. “See! See!” Red exclaimed, pointing the stick at the female. “Just like Doris! She’d do that every damn time I set foot in the bedroom. And look at that poor guy,” he said pointing to the male. “He just lumbers away like I used to do.” I felt bad for Red. I felt even worse for the male opossum. “Hell, Red, I’d be going nuts if I was that poor SOB,” I said, kicking at the dirt. “Oh, she’ll come around,” he answered, breaking the stick in two over his knee. “It just rattles me to no end how much she reminds me of Doris when she’d play ‘possum.” I awoke the following morning before sunrise to pack. I wanted to get off that mountain before again witnessing that opossum playing opossum. Being a bachelor’s tough enough. To watch a critter being dejected was just more than I could bear to see again. Ladies, should you stumble upon this recipe, remember that playing ‘possum hurts the one who loves you. 2 medium potatoes (peeled and diced) |
|