I told you I grew up PO'.

I grew up on a farm, so it was normal to help Mom slaughter a chicken. I can still smell the feathers in the boiling water and the singeing of the hair. You haven't lived until you've seen a chicken flopping around without a head. We even went out into the fields after harvest to pick greens. Yep, we wuz country.

My Dad passed away when I was 12 and then we moved to TOWN. Big time. Sidewalks.

I remember coming home from school on many occasions to a bucket o' brine with some animal carcass in it. It was usually rabbit, since my stepdad raised them for meat, but you never knew.

If my Mom saw a rabbit get hit by a car while she was driving, she'd stop, toss it in the trunk and we'd have dinner. No lie, cross my heart. As a matter of fact, I've never been sure if she 'saw' (wink, wink) it get hit, or if she was much less passively involved. We used to joke that if you saw a rabbit running across a field with a green car in close pursuit, Mom was bringing home take out.

I had a rabbit named Sarge when I was a teenager. My stepdad cut a notch in his ear so we wouldn't accidentally eat him. I don't remember seeing him after I got married, so he may have been Sunday dinner. If so, he tasted like chicken.

One time really sticks in my mind. The carcass was wide and flat--- it looked like.. well, it COULDN'T be--- but it was. A turtle.

She liked to try to 'disguise' food, too. Mashed turnips and mashed potatoes DO NOT taste the same, even though they look the same. If I was a bettin' gal, I'd say that my phobia of mashed potatoes took it's root right THERE.

She had this little green melamine bowl-- had it as long as I could remember. In it were 4 small potatoes with parsley on them. Nobody ever ate them, but she put them on the table for every meal. I think they started out as much larger potatoes, but they just shrivelled into little potatoes. She always swore she never made parselied potatoes.

Now I wonder what that green stuff was.

I can tell you one thing-- I ain't had a decent slick dumplin since she passed, and Florida has no idea what they are.

I'm getting a craving for scrapple. Rapa brand. Any takers? I'd give you my last nickel for some.

C'mon Eastern Shore-- help out a poor displaced wanderer?