When I lived briefly in Nashville, I was homeless for a while. One of my coworkers at Walmart said I could stay in his one bedroom apartment with him. I was a little skeptical (Okay, a lot skeptical) but I did anyway for a few days. He kept his place so hot you could fry eggs on the living room table. It was actually near impossible to sleep there so I didn’t last there too long, maybe 2-3 days for the most. What was interesting was that he had a plastic bucket in his refrigerator with roasted raccoon meat. I asked him where he’d gotten it. “I caught it myself,” he replied. “What?” I asked. “You set a trap?” “Yeah,” he answered. “They’re pretty slow and easy to snag.” He offered to heat up a piece for me but I refused. He was insulted. “It’s good eating!” he extolled. “I don’t deny that,” I admitted, “but I’m not hungry right now.” Truth be told, roadkill registers with me right alongside stewed mealworm and fried grasshopper. I know in Louisiana they love them some fried nutria, squirrel, rattlesnake, possum, badger, hedgehog and hare. Like an old friend of mine used to say, fricassee that fucker and you’ll eat nice. I don’t know. Maybe I challenge myself too much but life is short. You only live once. If other people can get into roasted beaver, I guess I can, too.