Southern Stew: A Childhood Memory

Chicken stew was a common meal at my grandparent’s house, as was goat stew, and on occasion, rabbit stew. When I say stew, I really mean a thick version of soup. Grandmother would boil a whole chicken, pull the meat from the bones, and mixed it with canned crushed tomatoes that had been put up earlier in the year, onions, corn, potatoes, and season it with salt and pepper. The goat and rabbit stew was made the same way, the only difference being the meat used.

In general, I liked chicken stew, though I would pick out a bone occasionally, which would make me squeamish for a few seconds. My fear was that I would swallow a tiny bone and choke to death on it. There was nothing like chicken stew and saltine crackers to chase away the chill of winter, though.

I was less keen on goat stew. My grandfather would call someone he knew who raised goats, and together they would slaughter the goat for the stew, before my granddad would bring the meat home. The goat meat was dark and tougher than chicken, and it didn’t taste as good to me. On one occasion I found what I thought was a goat hair in my bowl. After that, I avoided eating the stew. I could deal with the fact that I was eating the meat of a young goat, but I couldn’t deal with that goat’s hair ending up in my mouth.

For a short time, my grandfather kept rabbits for eating. I don’t have any memories of him slaughtering the rabbits, but I remember eating rabbit stew. The rabbits he kept looked like pet rabbits, and were kept in cages in the barn. There were few animals that I didn’t love, so I was naturally drawn to the barn to spend time with the rabbits. My grandmother warned me to keep my fingers away from their cages. They would bite me if they got the chance, she told me on several occasions. Why would cute fluffy rabbits bite me when I loved them so much? I just wanted to stroke their smooth, soft coats. I was just gaining confidence when one of the red-eyed demons bit my index finger, drawing blood. Jerking my hand back, I looked for something to wrap around my injured finger to staunch the blood flow before my grandmother came back to check on me. Glancing around, I saw a crate of old glass soda bottles, a few of which were broken. I had found material for the lie fabrication that I was forced to make. Grandmother would probably spank me if she knew I had disobeyed her, so I would tell her I had cut my finger on one of the soda bottles. Surely the cut would’ve looked similar. There was no reason for her not to believe me, at least that’s what I told myself. I had learned my lesson anyway, so there was no need for me to be spanked over it. I kept my distance from the rabbits in the future. They looked all soft and fluffy, but now I knew what they were capable of. I just hoped that I didn’t have rabies. That seemed to be the general fear about being bitten by anything that wasn’t a pet. 

Granddaddy’s rabbits were for eating, so I figured I was probably safe. Being bitten by one made me less remorseful about eating rabbit stew. Not that I blame the rabbit for biting me now. I would’ve bitten me too. People automatically assume that animals have no sense of their doom, but maybe those rabbits knew more than we gave them credit for.