In Which I Meet Lazarus

When I moved to North Carolina, I elected to embrace the “Southern Gentleman” persona. When in Rome, after all. So, I bought a seersucker suit and sat on the deck, when I could stand the heat and humidity, sipping bourbon. I began eating biscuits, collard greens, chow-chow, and okra. One day, as I was leafing through The Joy of Cooking, in search of inspiration, I stumbled on a recipe for opossum. Although I wasn’t sure how “Southern” it was, exactly, I read the directions through with a rather morbid curiosity. “If possible,” Mss. Rombauer and Becker advise, “trap ‘possum and feed it on milk and cereals for 10 days before killing.” After musing that I would have written out the word “ten,” I tried to imagine it. It seemed like an interesting project. 

Catching the ‘possum was easily accomplished: all that was required was to leave the lid off the trash can overnight. Sure enough, the next morning, he was there, jittery and with dark circles under his eyes. Having given up trying to climb the slick walls of the can, he was pacing around noisily when I went to see him. He seemed to want a cup of coffee. When I gave him milk, according to the instructions, he gave me a withering look. I started the countdown: “and there was evening and morning one day.”

It didn’t take me long to realize that I hadn’t really thought this project through. Mss. Rombauer and Becker had specified that he fed with cereal, but hadn’t indicated what kind. The cereal aisle at my local grocery  stretches for miles and displays hundreds of varieties. I wandered back and forth, feeling overwhelmed. Surely, they weren’t thinking of Marshmallow Treasures? The first edition of the Joy of Cooking was printed in 1931: perhaps they had been thinking of a hot cereal? Grits are traditional, but I still haven’t really developed a taste for them. I eventually decided on Toasted Oat Squares. It seemed a good compromise, and I like them. The ‘possum, as it turned out, did as well. It was fun to watch the working of his long, hinge-like jaws as he ate them. (CRUNCH! CRUNCH! CRUNCH!). And the evening and morning were the second day.

In the morning, my wife went to take out the trash and both she and the ‘possum were quite indignant to discover one another. I managed to restore the peace by buying a new can: a galvanized steel affair that, at Lazarus’s request, was small enough that he could scramble out of it on his own. I put some bricks in the bottom so that he could accomplish this without overturning the can. This significantly simplified the bathroom situation. He also found that, by banging his cereal bowl on the steel sides of the can, he was apt to get his Toasted Oat Squares much more quickly. And the evening and morning were the third day.

The dog has also been indignant over my ‘possum husbandry. She let me know that, in spite of Mss. Rombauer and Becker’s recommendations, ‘possums were best eaten as quickly as possible the same day they were caught. She also found the warnings that wild meat should be handled with gloves (“because of the danger of tularemia infection”), and fully cooked (“because any omnivorous warm-blooded animal may be harboring trichinosis”), overly cautious. She’d never had any problems, she assured me. The ‘possum, who had pulled the lid over the can, said in a muffled voice that it was better to be safe than sorry, and that we shouldn’t dismiss the wisdom of our elders without careful consideration. After that, he crunched sulkily on his cereal as the dog figuratively threw up her hands. And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.

How does one go about killing a ‘possum? Even though it had been pretty clearly implied in the recipe that this was going to be a requirement, this was another aspect I had failed to think through in advance. The more I thought about it, the less inclined I was to carry it out. The dog, predictably, said she’d be happy to do right then, and the possum banged his dish against the side of the can. I tabled the issue. There were still five days to go, after all. And the evening and the morning were the fifth day.

The ‘possum and I have taken to sitting together on the porch in the afternoon. I sip my bourbon and he sips his milk. He has already told me several things I didn’t know about the neighborhood, and is altogether a pleasant companion. It seemed silly to keep calling him “the ‘possum,” so once, when he clambered up to join me, I said, carelessly, “How was your day, Pogo?” He made a face and slunk back to the bottom of the can. “Don’t be offensive!” he hissed. I was immediately sorry, and said so. Apparently, calling all ‘possums “Pogo” is something of an ethnic slur. After I had  apologized profusely (and the dog rolled her eyes), he told me his name was Lazarus. 

On the seventh day, I was feeling restful. It was a pleasant afternoon with a cool breeze, and I watched as Lazarus scrambled awkwardly up the side of his can. The cereal diet was agreeing with him. He looked sleek and relaxed, a far cry from the wretched, anxious creature I had trapped a week earlier. The harrassed, up-all-night look was gone from his eyes. He put his face between his paws like a marsupial Kilroy and asked, “What is it today, boss?” 

“Gin,” I answered. I looked down at my glass. Even though gin is very aromatic, I drink it on the rocks, and this gin was slightly cloudy even without the condensation on the side of the glass. “Uncle Val’s; it’s pretty good stuff.”

“Really?” he asked, heaving himself up to the table. “In spite of its being from California?”

I started. While I am probably going to die in North Carolina, I was born in Washington State. We are the natural enemies of Californians. 

Lazarus chuckled wickedly. “I think you’d better stick with the local hooch, boss. Now, you take Chemist gin from Asheville, for example…”

To the dog’s disgust, and with apologies to Mss. Rombauer and Becker, I elected that day to cancel the roast ‘possum with turnip greens. It was clear that I was going to need Lazarus in a different capacity from now on.