There’s a squirrel marinating in my fridge.
It’s sitting in a bowl of water and white vinegar because apparently that’s supposed to do something, or so he tells me. The fridge smells faintly of vinegar now.
And I’m wondering: how exactly am I supposed to cook this small parcel of bone and meat?
I knew he’d shot it before he walked in the door, when I watched him park against the curb in front the sidewalk that leads to our front door. He headed to the side of the house first, before heading back for his shotgun and shells and coming in the front.
I didn’t see it until Sunday morning, when I opened the fridge and saw it floating in a vinegar bath. He says it looked mean, with sharp rodent teeth.
I’m thinking it won’t taste too gamey if I slow cook it in tomato soup. That’s the best plan I’ve come up with so far. I don’t exactly have a lot of experience in cooking squirrels.
But I expect I will before the year is out.
He’s talking of midweek hunting trips now, of getting in as much hunting as he can while the weather’s nice and before the season ends. He’s scouting for a deer spot, too, while he’s gone.
And he carries flash cards of crime theories with him into the woods, the strange melding of the western Pennsylvania blood that flows in his veins and the academia that’s taken over his mind and our lives of late.
And so our days go on as October turns to November and the last leaves hang tight to branches in the cold wind. He fills his hours often late into the night with words and theories and numbers that make no sense to me when I read them off his study guide. I fill mine with municipal meetings and playing with ferrets and yoga on Tuesday nights.
He carries flash cards everywhere he goes. I have lambs’ ears and black-eyed susans under by desk in plastic bags, gifts from a coworker’s overgrown garden to my under-planted one.
But I’m still looking for tips on cooking squirrel.