When I was little, I used to visit my grandfather’s hometown in Edgecombe County, North Carolina. He filled my head with stories of how things were done when I was a kid. One of my favorites was his story of making Brunswick stew. As I huddled in the musty backseat of my aunt’s big black Packard, he would begin the story. We would drive through the miles and miles of dusty tobacco fields, the tall yellowing plants sprouting on either side of the road, and he would drone on. The more he talked, the hungrier I got.
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According to his recollection, farm hands would work in the fields harvesting those massive leaves from dawn to dusk. At sunset, someone would light a fire and put a big black pot of water on it. Several of the fellows would head into the woods and shoot a rabbit and a squirrel, maybe even a wild turkey. Someone else would have put in a bunch of onions brought from home, and perhaps a wife would have packed her husband that morning with a basket of shortbread and tomatoes from the garden. Several ears of stolen corn might have finished the recipe. These ingredients were left to bubble and stew as the workers returned to the fields.
As the men gathered and baled the large leaves, the delicious aroma of that Brunswick stew wafted across the fields, eventually inviting them in for dinner. As I listened to him spin his tale, I always wondered, but never got around to asking . . . did they bother to skin those squirrels? I would picture that lovely vat of bubbling stew, and my mouth would ache to taste it, until in my imagination,