Like most people raised out in the sticks, the men in my family embrace the hunter-gatherer role. So when I got a text message from my darling husband at 2pm yesterday that simply read, "Dinner at the Willis house," I unfortunately knew what was in store - wild game in some form.
My brother is seven years my junior and lives by the Duck Commander's motto: Arise. Kill. Eat. If there's an open season for it, he's got the ammo to handle the job. Squirrels fear him and ducks don't stand a flappin' chance. But on last night's dinner table was a deer he harvested this past winter. Now to be fair to the poor deer who sacrificed his life for my family's southern fried dinner, if it has even the slightest hint of an antler Jon Wesley Brasher will pull the trigger. He doesn't subscribe to the school of thought of taking the "grandfather buck" and letting the others grow to maturity. In fact, I'd be willing to be a new pair of shoes that the pubescent specimen in the cast iron skillet barely had time to grow chest hair, much less strut for the ladies, before Wes took him.
So crowded around the dinner table we have 9 people. We had to bring extra chairs from the kitchen table and sit elbow-to-elbow to make room. There's country fried deer steak, field peas, creamed potatoes, fresh tomatoes as big as a softball, and cathead biscuits with molasses. Anyone else might of thought they'd died and passed through the Pearly Gates, but a Southerner knows that this is simply what Wednesday night dinner ought to look like. Dinner passed without a hitch. The only interesting topic of note was whether or not using "city water" made a difference in the growth of nanny's cousin Janice's tomatoes. All decided that it must, in fact, contribute to their divine flavor, as none of us could recall a tomato that ever grew as fine from our meager NE Morgan Water Authority hoses. There was also a brief discussion about turducken (a chicken stuffed inside a duck, stuffed inside a turkey) and how my hubby thought it'd be a good idea to have his own version: Dove-Duck-Goose. (Are you thinking of the children's game Duck-Duck-Goose? We all were and a nice laugh was had by all.) However, this will be unattainable until my poor husband actually kills a goose. The closests he's ever come is having a loaf of bread at Big Spring Park. And somehow I think the city of Huntsville would frown upon the clubbing of geese.
The conversation stopped short when Birdie decided she'd had enough of the peas and potatoes and threw her fork across the table. Mom took her to the porch swing so the rest of us could eat in peace. Nanny apologized for not having pie, but with mouths full of buttered molasses biscuits we all decided there was no need for the empty calories. When the plates were empty, we made our way to the living room.
The matriarch and patriarch took their places on the couch and in the recliner, respectively. And the rest of us took to the floor. Because let's be honest, when you eat a meal like that you just need to lie down and let it "settle." Meanwhile, Wes has fetched a stunning piece of jewelry from the rearview mirror of his pickup truck: a necklace made of parachute cord with six woodwinds (his waterfowl call collection) attached with keyrings. It was then that my precious little 14-month-old got her first lesson at calling wood ducks from Uncle Wes. It was indeed a proud moment for Unk and an entertaining one for the rest of the brood. I must say, I think she's a natural but I don't think Max-4 camo is really in her suggested color palette. With her skin tone, I'd say she's more of a spring or summer.
At 7:45, we'd had all the fun we could handle for one night. So we packed it up and headed home. It's nights like this one that make me proud to be from the South, where families are so close-knit that you still have to call your momma to let her know you made it home alright - even though it's only 12 miles down Alabama Highway 36 between our houses.
I hope you've enjoyed reading...now go call your momma and tell her you love her!
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