One fine day, me and Daddy Gene was toolin' thru Ed Wisner's pecan orchid down below the Sinclair refinery and spied a racoon perched in a tree fork just invitin' attention.
Being properly armed, we set about dispatchin' that varmit to his eternal destiny via a .22 bullit.
The next "logical" question was what to do with our obviously enviable prize?
Fortification with yeast inspired adult beverage provided the answer: We was gonna bar-b-que that sucka!
Retiring to the ubiquitous Wright City homestead, we fired up the iron smoke machine with seasoned hickory (while "firing up" our neophyte souls with more liquid "courage".)
With careful eye (and dubious appetite), me and Dad nursed that puppy all dang day with gently applied sauce basting, judicious seasoning, and ample attention to the hickory embers (while nervously sucking on the aluminum cans?).
At some point, the (brave???) adventurous chefs realized that jus' poppin' can tops and eye-ballin' the dark smoke pit delicacy wasn't accomplishin' much in the way of meaningful culinary ingestion.
Bottom line....me and Dad each whacked off a chunk of that dee-lish dish and chewed...and chewed...and chewed...and...well, that cud just got bigger and bigger in our mouths as we cogitated on the origin of our cuisine.
Ain't no fairy tale ending here. We spit that stuff out, popped another Bud, and swore a blood oath to NEVER cross that bridge again.
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3 comments:
That is too funny!!!
Eva...you are just too kind to an old fat man...many thanks!
lol,,aint it great,,all the opportunities that we had at our beck and call? Seriously, I feel I have been the most fortunate person I have ever known..some of my old running buddies probably see it the same way..(for me and themselves,,reckon?)
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