F-mauser, I got all day... Lemme hear this one then I may tell ya'll of "bar-b-q beast" and the bar-b-que collie samiches...
LOL, and *sigh* alright...
I got called in for a 'short' saturday work schedule while I was living in Florida. We got there at 7 am and were supposed to be done by 11 am, at the latest. It's the middle of August, 115 degrees, 99% humidity. As Hogdogs, and several others can tell you... That kind of weather, in the Florida sun, is hard to handle when you're being lazy. When you're working as hard as I was... it'll kill you.
As you may have guessed. It wasn't a short day. Around noon, we were finally told what was going on. It would require us to stay at work, busting our butts until midnight or later. The situation at hand didn't allow for any food runs, either.
About 6 pm, good ole Joe asks if I want some pizza. Joe was from the Achafalaya Basin in Louisiana, cleft palate and all; and known for carrying around a 1 lb block of cheese he would eat over the course of a work day. You had to love Joe... good guy.
(Note: I grew up as a kid that didn't like
cold food, let alone anything 'gross'.)
Joe could see that I was starving, and losing energy quickly. He was the only one of the six people there, that thought ahead and brought food. I wanted it badly, but I knew Joe embraced roadkill as a viable option to store-bought meat. I asked what was on the pizza, but he would only say it was "6-hour cooked meat".
We agreed, that if I ate it... he HAD to tell me what it was.
That pizza was some greasy stuff... but it really hit the spot. I would actually consider eating it again, given the chance.
I asked him, "Joe, what did I just eat?" Joe replies, in his creole-speak accent, "Weh, you memba, I wen home lass weeg? Ah mah way back deh wahr a law o row-kill. Ah tink deh wah sum pawh-um, an coon, an skwul in deh."
I asked for clarification, since his accent is a bit tough to understand sometimes, "So, that was road-killed opossum, raccoon, and squirrel?"
"Ah coog'd et fah sigs ow-ah."
From then on, I generally wasn't scared of what Joe asked me to try, and rarelly asked what I was actually eating. (He usually told me after I tried it.) However... I
always asked how long he cooked the meat. Anything over 8 hours meant it was beyond rigor, and into decomposition when he scraped it off the road. I ate everything from rat, to opossum, to raccoon, to truck vs deer leftovers, to... well, sometimes I didn't really know...
Joe really could take a crap sandwich and turn it into a gourmet meal, but you have to wonder about a guy when his favorite food is Squirrel Head Stew...
And that's the story behind me changing my view of road kill. I blame Joe.
Sorry if that was too long-winded for ya. I considered giving the short, quick version, but it just didn't seem right.
If you'll excuse me, I need to call that crazy creole.