"The realization that we are ALL (you, me) going to die and the attending DISBELIEF - isn't that the central premise of EVERYTHING?" - Maira Kalman, The Principles of Uncertainty
The August chapter "Heaven on Earth" of Kalman's NYTimes illustrated blog column cum book floats this simple, sober question above a painting of a frowning rabbit wearing red & white striped socks and brown laced shoes.
Did those rabbits on Charlie Thompson's farm know they were headed for the dinner plate? Is that why the first rabbit was so tough when Uncle Dennis fried it for supper? Did it freeze-up at the realization of imminent death? Did he make a bad joke to the others as Charlie grabbed him by the ears and set him in the bucket, suddenly regretting not having made a more sentimental departure? Adrenalin coursing through his veins might cause the muscles to tense and toughen, no?
I'd been looking for locally raised fresh rabbit for a while - asked around and got a tip from Chris at Cox Butcher on CR 16. He said Charlie, out in Lexington, ten minutes from Tennessee, raises them, dresses them, and leaves them in a freezer on his porch. If he isn't home to handle the sale himself buyers are trusted to leave the money in a bucket. When Dennis emailed a couple weeks ago that he and Aunt Marsha were coming from Georgia for a couple days visit I knew this was my excuse for finally making the trip. And we lucked out that Thursday. Charlie was home and out of frozen rabbits. We got four freshly dressed with the experience of watching Charlie clean them.
Standing twenty feet away, carrying a conversation with Charlie about his goats, his chickens, his job at the paper mill, his ideas for a better agrarian lifestyle (he referenced Joel Salantin), a childhood ditty floated through my mind: little bunny Foo Foo hoppin' through the forest, pickin' up the field mice and boppin' 'em on the head.
There was a quick knock on the skull, neck to the tree stump, swift axe severing head from body, then the skinning. I adopted Charlie's declamation of preference for cleaning rabbit over chicken any day. Although I've never cleaned a rabbit, the easier process was apparent, namely, no feathers to pluck!
"Slaughterhouse junkie," my sister calls me. First chickens last fall, then hogs, now the furries. I was surprised she ate with such enthusiasm - the owner of several bunnies as a child - she even ate the fried livers. When those gorgeous maroon glands fell out in Charlie's agile hands our eyes grew wide and Charlie asked,"did you want the - ?" "Yes!" Dennis and I answered in unison.
The goal is always to assuage my appetite for delicacies I can't easily hail a cab to a stylish metropolitan eatery to obtain. I have to prepare them at home. My mind has been Pollanized (The Omnivore's Dilemma) with the belief that I should know, whenever possible, exactly where my family's food is coming from, and that it should be, whenever possible, locally and naturally sourced. Culminating to a perfect experience, I shared this adventure, this meal, with my Mother & Sister, Aunt & Uncle, Sister's boyfriend Willie, and good friends Michelle & Jennifer. For three hours we gathered in the kitchen, on the deck, and around the table, laughing and telling stories, sharing our lives, and enjoying each other's company. That's the whole point - to suspend the disbelief, forget the inevitable, if only for a few, tangible happy hours.
Add fried oysters from the Gulf via Lash Seafood in Rogersville, grilled zucchini from the garden with shredded parmesan, and Dennis's famous steamed shrimp (Alabama gulf) a la Fourth of July, fried rabbit livers to die for - perfectly cooked, tender and delicate, easily the best I've ever had, and a feast was upon us. Never mind recipes. We Griffitts aren't big recipe followers or writers, but maneuver along instinct and expectation, always working toward that ideal in our heads. When the fried rabbit proved tough, Dennis simmered it in gravy, which tasted even better a couple days later. Next rabbit (naturally there are two more in the freezer) I'm thinking carrot-rabbit stew. I have a memory of a lunch with an old winemaker in Salta, Argentina. I'm going for that flavor, aiming to reproduce the memory, and will ultimately be satisfied with creating a new one.
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