Roadkill
I always suspected I would eat roadkill one day. I just thought I’d be a lot older and more impoverished. (Since I have zero money saved and it’s iffy that my kids will like me in another 20 years, my retirement plan includes a lot of scavenging.) But this little guy wandered in front of a friend’s truck and — voilà — roadkill in the freezer ahead of schedule. Round here, that’s like winning the locavore lottery, but I wasn’t so thrilled. I had one run-in with a venison steak in college — late-night, pan-fried in a dorm. Didn’t go well. I can’t remember how it tasted, but it smelled like holy hell. That was the same smell I was treated to when this hood ornament was frying up. (My husband claimed it smelled good, but he isn’t offended by his feet, either.) After getting past that, and the idea of highway tenderized meat, it was somewhat edible. But I think I’ll let my husband finish up the remains.
Picky Niki 