I ate squirrel as a child. Stewed by the old men of Clinton, the central Georgia community where I was born and raised. My father wasn't a hunter. Neither was I. But our friends were. And they cooked well. The only squirrel meat I ever saw was served in a stew bowl. Strands of dark meat among the limas and corn and onions. Last week, my friend Wylie Prewitt, a hunter and historian of hunting, delivered a Ziploc bag of four squirrels to our doorstep. They were skinned and cleaned, free of viscera. I was at work. My wife received him. Received them. She blanched and stammered and put them in the fridge and shrouded them with a towel. I didn’t like the look much, either. Wylie told Blair that these squirrels were from Desha County, Arkansas. Spring fox squirrels, he said, two adolescents and two adults. He was proud of his kills. Said they weren't the best you find this time of year. Those are mulberry tree squirrels. These were hackberry tree squirrels. That night, I took them from the Ziploc, rinsed them free of blood. Put them in a Dutch oven filmed with butter. I smothered them with onions and celery, a little bit of thyme, some salt, and a couple of grinds of pepper. Two hours later, we picked the bones clean of sweet meat that tasted something like rabbit, nothing like chicken. Later, Wylie told me I should have made squirrel and dumplings. Next time, I said.
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