In my campaign to convince my girlfriend that a meal of 'coon might be worth tasting (which I'm approaching with all the zeal and haste of General McClellan facing Lee in Virginia), I stopped in at Scottie's to get some catfish and chat:
"I'll take a pound of catfish."
"They don't come that small."
"Pound and a half?"
"Lemme look."
I inquired about the raccoon, whether it's still in season. It is.
The gentleman asked me whether I was going to "muss" it? When I looked at him blankly, he offered that Anne could muss it. I don't normally want anyone mussin' with my food before I cook it, but he seemed intent.
"You mean she'd butcher it?"
"It's frozen, so you gotta thaw it out before you muss it."
"Butcher it? Cut it up?"
"A raccoon has muss. It's musky. Anne, would you muss it for him."
A bright light dawns! The accent was unfamiliar, but my ear was starting to get in tune. Of course I would. I would definitely want her to muss it for me. No way I'm mussin' it myself. Not the first time anyway.
He explained that there are glands along the sides of the body, in the face, and in the armpits, buried in the fat, and that she could thaw it out and take the glands out for me. That'd be the way. But that would make raccoon a command performance. No "bring it home, let it sit in the freezer while I figure out what in hell to do with it." Just "honey, I brought some 'coon meat home, how shall we prepare it tonight?" like Daniel Boone used to say to Rebecca after he got the day's kill out of the way-back of his SUV.
So I'm one day closer to a meal of coon. The way McClellan was one day closer to attacking Lee.