He rolls into the parking lot of Leon's Thriftway in an old, maroon Impala with a trunk full of frozen meat. Raccoon — the other dark meat.
In five minutes, Montrose, Missouri trapper Larry Brownsberger is sold out in the lot at 39th Street and Kensington Avenue. Word has gotten around about how clean his frozen raccoon carcasses are. How nicely they’re tucked up in their brown butcher paper. How they almost look like a trussed turkey … or something.
His loyal customers beam as they leave, thinking about the meal they'll soon be eating.
That is, as soon as the meat is thawed. Then brined. Soaked overnight. Parboiled for two hours. Slow-roasted or smoked or barbecued to perfection.
Raccoon, which made the first edition of The Joy of Cooking in 1931, is labor-intensive but well worth the time, aficionados say.
"Good things come to those who wait," says A. Reed, 86, who has been eating raccoon since she was a girl.
"This right here," she says, holding up a couple of brown packages tied with burlap string, “this is a great value. And really good eatin’. Best-kept secret around.”
Raccoons go for $3 to $7 — each, not per pound — and will feed about five adults. Four, if they’re really hungry.
Those who dine on raccoon meat sound the same refrain: It's good eatin'.
For the average person, who probably doesn't spend much time thinking how a steer or a pig or a chicken might meet its maker, raccoons may seem too cute to eat.
Until you try one.
At the Blue Springs home of Billy Washington, raccoon, fish, bison and deer are staples on his family’s table.
On this day, it's raccoon.
The meat is almost ready to be boiled, except for one thing: Although its head, innards and three paws have been removed, it still has one. That’s the law.
"They leave the paw on to prove it's not a cat or a dog," Washington says.
"If stores could sell coon, we’d run out of them. It's a long-hidden secret that they're so good."
After several hours, a delicious smell — roast beef? chicken? — drifts from the oven.
A mingling of garlic and onion and sweet-smelling spices.
And when Washington opens the lid, a tiny leg falls easily from the bone.
“See that? Tender as a mother’s love,” he says with a grin. “Good eatin’.”
And the taste?
Definitely not chicken.
http://www.mcclatchydc.com/251/story/59566.html
In five minutes, Montrose, Missouri trapper Larry Brownsberger is sold out in the lot at 39th Street and Kensington Avenue. Word has gotten around about how clean his frozen raccoon carcasses are. How nicely they’re tucked up in their brown butcher paper. How they almost look like a trussed turkey … or something.
His loyal customers beam as they leave, thinking about the meal they'll soon be eating.
That is, as soon as the meat is thawed. Then brined. Soaked overnight. Parboiled for two hours. Slow-roasted or smoked or barbecued to perfection.
Raccoon, which made the first edition of The Joy of Cooking in 1931, is labor-intensive but well worth the time, aficionados say.
"Good things come to those who wait," says A. Reed, 86, who has been eating raccoon since she was a girl.
"This right here," she says, holding up a couple of brown packages tied with burlap string, “this is a great value. And really good eatin’. Best-kept secret around.”
Raccoons go for $3 to $7 — each, not per pound — and will feed about five adults. Four, if they’re really hungry.
Those who dine on raccoon meat sound the same refrain: It's good eatin'.
For the average person, who probably doesn't spend much time thinking how a steer or a pig or a chicken might meet its maker, raccoons may seem too cute to eat.
Until you try one.
At the Blue Springs home of Billy Washington, raccoon, fish, bison and deer are staples on his family’s table.
On this day, it's raccoon.
The meat is almost ready to be boiled, except for one thing: Although its head, innards and three paws have been removed, it still has one. That’s the law.
"They leave the paw on to prove it's not a cat or a dog," Washington says.
"If stores could sell coon, we’d run out of them. It's a long-hidden secret that they're so good."
After several hours, a delicious smell — roast beef? chicken? — drifts from the oven.
A mingling of garlic and onion and sweet-smelling spices.
And when Washington opens the lid, a tiny leg falls easily from the bone.
“See that? Tender as a mother’s love,” he says with a grin. “Good eatin’.”
And the taste?
Definitely not chicken.
http://www.mcclatchydc.com/251/story/59566.html
