One Sunday when I was a kid, the Old Man skipped church and went fishing. Bored, I grabbed an old single 12 and went for a walk in the back pastures. I jumped a fat groundhog and gave him a dose of #3. I toted him back to the house and asked Mom if she would cook it. For some reason, she agreed, and I cleaned him and she threw him in the roaster pan with some onion soup mix. Lo and behold the Preacher shows up to check on why we weren't at church. Now, for anyone who hasn't grown up in the Bible Belt, it's common for preachers to make their rounds and its a written, enforceable law (somewhere) that he must be fed best Sunday dinner when he comes by. Mom went into a panic, because she was flat busted with the Old Man out fishing (another law). She went into a bustle fixing cornbread, potatoes and green beans while nervously conversing with the Preacher as he patiently sat at the dinner table. I set the table and poured the ice tea. Once all the platters were filled, out came the main entree. The Guest of Honor lifted the roaster lid and there sat brother groundhog, all gray and slick with fat. At which point Preacher, a man well experienced in surprise meals, deadpanned, "Well, what are we having, rat?" Mom's heart stopped and and her mouth started moving with no words coming out. Preacher asked me to help cut it up and we dug in. Kinda stringy and a bit greasy. We finished and Preacher went on his way. Mom took her first full breath only after the door shut. Next Sunday we were all in church. I recall the Old Man not looking too happy.
