Cookbook Friday: Squirrel Surprise

When my grandmother, Dora Barbaresi, married her second husband, Albert Donroe, it turned out not to be the ideal marriage.  Still, they stuck it out for more than 20 years for the sake of the kids. 

They divorced in the 1970s, so my memories of Poppi are vague: a mixture of stubbly five o’clock shadow, the pasta e fagioli he made, him singing about the pasta e fagioli he made, and how he pretty much was always singing (including Sinatra's song, Tangerine, which was his pet name for me).  The singing gene, I’m pretty sure, hasn’t skipped any generations since.

Over the years, many a colorful word has been used to describe him, which I won’t repeat because I’m a lady.  But, this is my favorite story, probably because the embellishment is mostly mine (embellished, but still largely true).  Here’s a recipe for his most memorable culinary contribution.

Squirrel Surprise

On your way out the door to gamble away your family’s meager food budget, take note of strewn acorn shells on the front stoop.  Complain loudly about your wife’s annoying habit of feeding a particular neighborhood squirrel. 

Wait until the wife is away, preferably working her arthritic fingers to the bone at a low-wage dress shop.  Locate a large rock.  In your ample free time between dead-end jobs, stake out behind bushes.  Identify tame and peckish squirrel.  With your good arm, hurl rock squarely at the head of the rodent.  Swagger toward your prize, wondering why your pitching career never went anywhere.  Skin the bushy-tailed rat, and then spit-roast over an open fire (preferably in the front yard).  Or stew with a variety of dubious wild mushrooms from the backyard.  Or grind into one tiny sausage. 

Enjoy – then hide the evidence.  Wait until wife wonders aloud why the squirrel hasn’t shown up for meals, lately.  Then proudly detail your exploits.

Note: Any suburban animal will do, but choose wisely.  Deliciousness corresponds directly to the amount of affection between the animal and the person you wish to spite.  Well-groomed pets tend to be plumper than strays, but consider moving spit to backyard.

Albert Victor Donroe
New Haven, Connecticut
1913 - 2007

Next Recipe: Stuffed Mushrooms

     (Previously: Making Pasta)

Comments

[Luther]

I know just the chocolate lab for this recipe. I'm moving my spit to the backyard as we speak.

[Sally]

I'm sitting here, totally pissed off, with my mouth open. That jerk!! I'll bet Dora wonders now why it took her so long for her to boot him out the door. Argh!

[Tammy]

Sally: Can you believe that? I mean, at least share.

Luther: Mmmm...chocolate lab. Yummy.

[Dad]

Unfortunately, the core of this story is all too true. My dad, now 93 lived his entire life with a very large chip on his shoulder; where he got it from exactly, we never knew. Hopefully, he has made his peace with heaven because somewhere out there is a pissed-off squirrel just waiting!

[joey]

My favorite recipe from my Uncle Al was spaghetti with hot dogs in it. I can still hear him singing "Pupalina ". Oddly, I have no taste for either spaghetti or hot dogs ...

[Jim]

Some tribes believed that by eating portions of your opponent after killing him in battle, you gained his power. Maybe the guy was just trying to capitalize on his wife's affections for the squirrel?

...poor little squirrel. ;_;

[Tammy]

Jim: Why do guys always think they can win the heart of the girl by killing/eating her pet?

Joey: Actually, this explains a lot. The origin of the hot dog gene has been revealed.

Dad: I hear the squirrel has friends in high places.

[Carol Covin]

Great story! I heard my husband laughing over one of my mother's cookbooks recently. Turned out, her cookbook specified "2 grey squirrels" for Brunswick stew, one of his favorite dishes, and, reputedly, only authentic with squirrel.

http://newgrandmas.com/food/when-did-squirrel-disappear-from-american-cookbooks-book-thursday/