Every once in a while my mom would bring back a mysterious batch of highly sought after soup from my great grandparent's house. It arrived at our house still frozen, packed in a white cardboard container, the likes of which I had never seen anywhere else. Its proportions were similar to the average carton of milk, except this carton was unlabeled and it had clearly taken a few rounds of steroids. After the giant blank box thawed, my mom dumped the contents into a pot where we finally got a glimpse of the mystery soup inside. To the untrained eye, it appeared to be an ordinary looking variety of vegetable beef stew. The only major difference was that this particular version was chock full of bright yellow corn kernels. I was informed that it was also quite spicy. For some reason, my dad and his dad would get super excited to get their hands on a big old bowl of this brothy brown concoction. Personally, I never quite understood the appeal. In my opinion, a meal of basic beef stew where the chef had been a bit heavy handed with the corn niblets and old bay was not a reason to get all worked up.
After all, my mom knew her way around the kitchen pretty well. She was perfectly capable of turning out a rather respectable beef stew. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why the heck this soup sent from Great Grampa was so stinkin' special? Obviously, it must have included some super secret ingredient that was only accessible to my great grandparents. I guess in that case, I should probably give it a whirl. I didn't want to miss out on this rare opportunity, but for some strange reason, my mom was hesitant. I assumed that she was afraid that I wouldn't like it and wasting food at our house was a major no-no. After promising to finish whatever tiny amount that I was served, I was finally given my own ladleful. Dad and Grampa did not share the unspoken concerns of my mother. They thought that I should definitely try the soup.
Of course they did. They were the two masterminds behind the highly controversial "one spoonful" rule. In our household, we were not allowed to proclaim that we did not like something unless we had tried a small sample of the food in question. Furthermore, if you already knew from past experience that you definitely hated said food, you were still strongly encouraged to try it again. The philosophy was "You never know, your taste buds might have changed." In some cases this theory did actually hold true. I did eventually develop a taste for things like beer and coffee, but my taste buds are still holding strong when it comes to chowing down on coleslaw. Despite repeatedly coaxing a solitary spoonful of this vile substance past my lips, I still can't stand it. My sister has found the same to be true with frozen mixed vegetables and my brother's feelings about macaroni and cheese of any kind remain unchanged. Therefore, I can only partially endorse the one spoonful rule. It's mostly a bust related to revisiting dishes that I already find revolting. That being said, I can't argue with its validity when applied to new and unfamiliar foods. How can anyone make an informed decision about food preferences if they won't slurp a single spoonful of the meal in question?
On this particular occasion, the logic of Dad and Grampa's one spoonful rule seemed sound. My mother's strangely vague apprehension surrounding the mystery soup was not enough to sway my decision one way or the other. Despite the fact that the adults were divided on the stew sampling issue, I still made up my mind to go for it. I was curious to find out what all the fuss was about. Noticeably, both of my older siblings chose to abstain from this adventurous taste trial, indulging in a far less intriguing bowl of chicken noodle instead. This alone should have clued me in to the fact that something strange was afoot.
On any given night, if you did not care for whatever house specialties that my mother was fixing for dinner, you had two choices: Option A...Keep your opinion to yourself and eat it anyway thus avoiding the "starving children somewhere/lucky to have a mother who prepares nutritious meals for you" lecture. Option B...Quietly take it upon yourself to prepare an acceptable alternative thus avoiding the "I am not a short order cook/if you don't like it, you'll have to settle for peanut butter and jelly" lecture. On this particular occasion, my mom had prepared both the special mystery soup and a bonus pot of chicken noodle. Having a substitute soup option specifically prepared in advance by my mom should have definitely tipped me off. This mystery soup was no ordinary pot of stew. That, and zero mention of the one spoonful rule should have been dead giveaways, but I was already committed to my decision.
While the first soup selection came from Great Grampa, the alternative choice was provided by some lady that I didn't know. Although I never met her in person, I sure did enjoy her cooking style. Her name was Mrs. Grass and when it came to prepackaged soup, she was a brilliant innovator. When there was no time to whip up a steaming pot of homemade chicken noodle soup from scratch, you could turn to good old Mrs. G for a helping hand. Her special recipe was sold in a bright blue package and every single box contained an extremely special ingredient. This carefully hidden gem could be found in the bottom of each box, tucked among a tangle of tiny yellow sticks of starch. Her method deviated sharply from the other boring boxed competitors where you simply dumped a chunky waterfall of dry powder and noodles into a pan. Even against those cats over at Lipton who patented the circular noodle, Mrs. Grass held her own.
Her soup contained the most awesome soup making invention since the pot...the magic seasoning egg. The preparation steps for her soup were similar to most other store bought brands, with one tiny, awe-inspiring exception. When preparing a box of Mrs. Grass, one lucky duck was assigned an extremely important and dangerous mission. Typically, children were given the boot while mom was cooking unless good old Mrs. Grass was being featured on the menu. She gave us kids a legitimate reason to remain within the risky perimeter of the normally forbidden food prep zone. Our special and super dangerous assignment was to drop the magic seasoning egg into the scalding hot cauldron of boiling water at precisely the right moment. Then, everyone would lean over the simmering soup to watch in awe as that egg shaped bit of wonder did its thing. It would float on the surface for just a second, like a chicken flavored fishing bobber, before magically disappearing among a turbulent tumble of fast dancing egg noodles. Obviously, this Grass lady was a marketing genius. Observing this soup making miracle never got old, not even for adults. A guaranteed bit of awesome in every tiny egg.
Unfortunately, like everything else that used to be cool, updated safety standards have completely ruined the magic that was once Mrs. Grass. Her soup still contains her amazing invention, the golden flavoring egg, but the point of insertion has now been reassigned. Although it's been quite a while since I dined in her company, I believe that the directions on the package now tell you to unceremoniously dump all the contents of the box into the pot at once. This prevents billions of tots from balancing precariously on kitchen chairs, standing eagerly over the hot stove, clutching little goo filled orbs in their tiny fists. And let's be honest, no kid ever just calmly stood there. They were always impatiently squirming around, whiling away the many minutes before the magic happened. From personal experience, I can tell you that nothing made the time go faster than trying to aggressively crush that ridiculously resilient egg between your palms. After all, staring at a soup pot, searching for the first signs of a simmer gets pretty boring. As a mother, I am all about safety measures that prevent little babes from getting burned, but as a kid surviving that element of danger was the best part. The newly recommended preparation methods just don't pack the same punch.
Despite my hearty appreciation for Mrs. Grass and her soup, this time I would go a different route, boldly taking on a new taste adventure. I remember the special stew sent to us from Great Grampa being pretty tasty. I still thought it was weird that someone had put loads of corn into a pot of beef stew. Also, it certainly did have a quite a kick to it, but all in all, I liked it. The chunks of meat were tender and the broth was velvety and rich. The only thing I found strange was that despite its tenderness, the meat seemed to be unusually stringy. Also, it had a faint unfamiliar aftertaste that I couldn't quite put my finger on. Still, these two issues did little to affect my overall enjoyment of the meal. I hungrily gobbled up my first bowl of mystery soup and went on my merry way. From that point on, whenever Great Grandpa sent us a carton, I joined my dad and grampa in feasting on the special, spicy corn-strewn stew.
I don't remember exactly how I found out what it was that I was actually eating. I'm willing to bet that it had something to do with my older brother and sister. Being relentlessly taunted by my two elder siblings who were more than happy to give away the disturbing little secret ingredient sounds likely. I would eventually come to find out that the "beef stew" that I had been happily consuming was not in fact sourced from any local farm. In truth, it's main ingredient had strolled straight from a swamp. For some reason, this swamp to table movement is a regional delicacy that never caught on nationwide. The cow that I thought was in my soup turned out to be a turtle.
Whaaaaat? My parents let me regularly dine on chopped up chunks of cute little turtle without telling me? Isn't that a form of child abuse? I mean, we were not even allowed to think about owning pet turtles, but they let me eat one? My parents weren't anti reptile but they felt the overwhelming risk of catching salmonella from turtle tanks was too great. To be fair, their fears were not completely unwarranted. In high school, my dad once accidentally poisoned himself by ingesting a bad baloney sandwich. It's no wonder as it had been languishing all morning in a lunch bag in his locker. Ever since then, food borne illness was a bit of a touchy subject at our house. To add insult to injury, my mother had been reading a book to me called I Have a Turtle probably since the day I came home from the hospital. It was one of my favorite stories about this little boy that keeps a pet turtle under his mommy's bed in a hat box and nobody knows about it. Talk about sneaky secrets! Come to find out I had been regularly swallowing meaty spoonfuls of my cute little reptilian buddy. I was understandably freaked out about the whole affair.
And so, my parents had to sit me down and come clean. Yes, the "beef" in the special stew from Great Grandpa's house was actually turtle meat. Gasp! How could they? But it was NOT the friendly turtles that you might meet up with in the woods. It was actually snapping turtle meat. If you ever met one of those on a hike, you would run screaming in the opposite direction. Accckkk! Gross! Even worse! You voluntarily let me put bits of disgusting prehistoric swamp dwelling reptiles into my mouth? Ewwwww! Spit. Spit. Spit. I am never, ever forgiving you and now that definitely counts as child abuse!
Despite my obvious outrage, this helped sort out another unsolved mystery from childhood. Suddenly, it all began to make sense. At my great grandparent's house, there was a special galvanized metal tub covered with chicken wire. Inside lived the meanest gang of turtles that you ever came across in your life. Their razor sharp jaws could easily snap even the sturdiest of sticks in two. This left a meaningful and lasting impression. The fact that they could certainly consume any pint-sized pointer finger that came their way was taken seriously, even by kids who might normally be considered risk takers. Unruly youth who refused to wear bike helmets and played with matches knew better than to tango with those tough guy turtles. We were continuously warned not to play with them, although I think they handled their own avoidance PR better than any adults ever could. They used to hiss and flail around anytime you went within fifty feet of their enclosure. Of course, I knew that they weren't pets, but I didn't know that they were in a sort of holding pen, waiting to be carefully cleaned and stewed for dinner. The scary snappers were such a regular part of life at Great Gramma and Grampa's house that you would be hard pressed to find any visitors who hadn't had at least one quick gander at that terrifying tub of turtles.
Later in life, I would learn exactly how those cranky old snapping turtles ended up in the tub. The first method involved tying some hunks of rotting meat onto enormous hooks. They looked just a hair smaller than the size Captain Hook might need. You simply used some strong line to secure them to the handle of old empty milk or bleach containers. Then, all you had to do was find some swampy looking bit of water, and float the plastic jugs on the surface. Eventually, a hungry snapping turtle came along in search of a snack. Consider it a way to re-purpose waste materials before recycling was a regular thing. If you weren't that patient, there was still another option. To try it, you had to be fearless or dumb or possibly both. If you were neither, being able to locate a convenient source of liquid courage probably helped.
This second method required much greater skill. You had to silently wade along the shoreline of streams, ponds, and swamps in search of turtle condominiums. Once you located a possible piece of turtle real estate, you would sneakily slide your hand under the surface of the water. Then, you had to carefully reach up into holes and stumps along the bank in search of your tasty turtle friends. Hopefully, you met up with snapper shells hiney end first. Also, you had to watch out for mistakenly invading the residence of a snake, a beaver, or a muskrat. It probably goes without saying that none of these creatures reacted in a very friendly manner to the surprise presence of an unwanted arm invading their living space.
The inherent danger of hand fishing for turtles was not taken lightly. My mother and my paternal grandfather both had a permanently parted finger nail. They would frequently commiserate about the grief it gave them, although the way they acquired their unique deformity couldn't be more different. The nails would grow normally until they reached a certain point where they would veer off into two separate forks like the tongue of a hissing snake. It wasn't unsightly and most people probably never even noticed it, however, it caused each of them trouble. It was extremely easy to catch on every little thing under the sun, like having a permanent hang nail to watch out for. No matter how many times they clipped it, filed it, or glued it, it would continue to split at the exact same point due to a healed scar that forever existed underneath the nail bed. Despite the similarity of their injury, its acquisition couldn't be more opposite. I assure you that my mother was not involved in tracking down any kind of wild reptile. She had accidentally wounded herself in a much more civilized pursuit, the victim of freak sewing machine accident. Supposedly, my grandfather had acquired his injury at the
A case of mistaken identity, Grampa wasn't seeking muskrat, his goal was to snag a big old fat snapping turtle. Should you inadvertently meet up with a snapping turtle beak first, there was only one thing to do if he refused to let go. I know this because my great grandfather taught all of his offspring this top secret emergency removal technique just in case. Thankfully, I've never had to use it myself, but supposedly if a snapping turtle has clamped his beaky little bite onto someone or something and you want it to let go, you simply poke it in the posterior. Voila, it will instantly release its painful and powerful grip. I shared this morsel of knowledge at lunch with my suburban coworkers one day and I got the, "Oh my God, your childhood must have been absolutely awful" look. No matter, I was willing to put myself out there in order to share such an important public service announcement. Now, if they ever have to duke it out with a snapping turtle, they'll at least have a fighting chance.
Disclaimer: To any animal rights folks who may be reading this, I am in no way advocating unwarranted animal abuse, not even towards mean, old ugly snappers. This technique is to be reserved for extreme emergencies where it is you or the turtle (more likely your finger or the turtle). Despite the fact that it sounds fairly plausible, I am certainly in no position to guarantee that it actually works. Not to mention, where I am from, things can be extreme. Poking a snapping turtle in the bum to remove it while keeping it alive beats the heck out of whacking it into submission with the business end of a shovel. I obviously don't condone that sort of thing either. I'm just saying stuff like that happens out in the country. How you choose to save yourself from a snapping turtle attack is your business. Back to the soup.
The idea of chowing down on the kind of cute little turtles that kids occasionally brought to show and tell was obviously upsetting. The fact that it was not this type of turtle was a kind of relief, but swallowing morsels of prehistoric swamp monster was equally disconcerting. I certainly had no fondness for them or where they lived, that's for sure. In my previous post, I mentioned that not too far behind my house was a fairly substantial swamp. I lived there for over twenty years, but I never personally saw it myself. I know it was there because whenever our dog Sandy decided to go on walkabout, she would return sporting scummy souvenirs from this putrid parcel of stinkwater. After what seemed like days of hollering from our back porch, she would eventually trot back home, slimed in a lovely shade of florescent green pond scum. Fortunately, these little unplanned excursions were fairly rare for her, unlike those of our more adventurous (read never owned a leash in his life) neighbor dog.
Our neighbors owned a collie. If you're thinking Lassie, stop right there. Unless your version of Lassie smelled and looked like he was recently buried up to the neck in a combination off peat moss and garbage. If so, toss in a little bit of rotting roadkill for good measure, then by all means continue. The parts of his fur that were supposed to be that lovely reddish brown collie color had morphed into a revolting shade of greenish yellow usually only found in dirty diapers. The neighbor lady called him Smokey but all of her children referred to him as Bear. As a kid, I could never figure out why the dog had two completely different names. In hindsight, his name must have obviously been Smokey the Bear. Unless he was going to lift his leg and whiz on your campfire, I couldn't possibly tell you what he and that giant hat wearing grizzly had in common. The neighbor girl used to constantly ask me if I wanted to pet her dog. I always politely declined, afraid I'd lose a hand. She would kindly explain that he was super gentle and didn't bite, but I steadfastly refused to oblige. While he really was uber friendly, I was terrified that if I touched his disgusting matted fur, my hand might fall clean off. God knows what alarming level of toxins he had absorbed into his body over the years.
At some point, poor old Smokey had his own unfortunate run in with a snapping turtle. His souvenir was a newly redesigned tongue. On hot summer days, Smokey would saunter across the field between our houses in search of his youngest owner. By the time he reached our yard, his long pink tongue was usually hanging out. Even from a considerable distance, you could clearly see the perfect triangle that had been stolen from the edge of his licker, snatched by the wicked pointy beak of a feisty snapping turtle. Having obviously not learned his lesson, it was good old Smokey who found the second biggest snapping turtle that I ever saw in my life. The biggest snappers I ever observed made their home in a reservoir on the border of New York and Pennsylvania. From an elevated observation area, you can peer down and see herds of giant snapping turtles cruising around just beneath the surface of the water. From three stories up, their shells look like giant underwater flying saucers. I assure you that I will not be swimming there anytime soon.
While avoiding murky green waters was a relatively safe bet, it didn't guarantee a snapper free existence. I will never forget the day good ole Smokey tracked down this behemoth of a reptile inching her way across my very own backyard. She must have made a wrong turn on her way back to the swamp and found herself unexpectedly along the edge of our woods. Seeing a prehistoric creature amble about your lawn may be fascinating to some but I was downright petrified. In fact, I was so scared that upon seeing it, I developed a spontaneous nosebleed right there on the spot. At first, I thought that the snapping turtle had made a lightning fast strike. For a brief moment, I was actually afraid that I had lost the tip of my nose. Then I remembered that this was a species of turtle and not a cheetah.
With hand clutched to face, I frantically sprinted to the house in search of tissues. I'm sure that little scene temporarily freaked my mom out. Once I was safely inside, it was clear to all parties involved that I had not been attacked by the turtle. It was at that point that my very own mother had the audacity to inquire if I had been picking my nose. I don't know which offended me more...the accusation that I had been digging for treasure in my right nostril or the idea that I had exposed any of my digits in the presence of a snapping turtle. Did she not realize that this extremely hostile amphibian had the ability to rip body parts clean off? I mean she was obviously not paying attention during the broom handle safety demonstration at Great Grampa's house! I most certainly did not place a single finger in my snoot out there. Both of my hands had been securely jammed in my pockets the entire time, safely tucked away from the danger of those digit destroying prehistoric jaws.
I will be the first to admit that my fear of swamps and snapping turtles may not be very realistic, but I'm still not going to get over it any time soon. I blame my parents of course for choosing to raise me in a snapping turtle ridden, swamp covered area of the state. To that end, I do not recommend their realtor. Luckily, there aren't many swamps to contend with here in the suburbs of Long Island. The neighborhood turtles are a cute, friendly bunch that mostly keep to themselves, unlike those bloodthirsty swamp beasts back home. The local variety of turtles are also rare and protected and it is illegal to eat them. This makes sharing my childhood tales of turtle tasting seem even crazier than normal, which is fine with me. I am perfectly okay admitting that I have happily consumed my fair share of snapping turtle soup and I don't feel one bit bad about it.
In fact, I'd try it all over again if I had the chance but these days, that's unlikely. I certainly am not going to be the one who volunteers to stuff my arm into a muddy hole on the side of a river bank to retrieve dinner. I also have no interest in taking on the arduous and nasty task of cleaning them to prepare the special stew. With my regular turtle suppliers only accessible via seance, it's safe to say that without divine intervention, I won't be featuring snapping turtle soup on the evening menu anytime soon. That's a shame, I would love to see the look of horror on the faces of the parents at the local park when my kids tell their kids, "My mom is from Pennsylvania, and we just had a big old pot of snapping turtle soup for supper." That little gem is guaranteed to either start a lively conversation or end it immediately as people quickly move their children to the other side of the playground, "Kids, slowly back away from the turtle eating weirdos." Either way, it sure beats giving yet another impromptu dissertation on the ins and outs of Amish daily life for the seven hundredth time.
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