displaced

I was over in the cemetery field yesterday pulling up plastic mulch and turning over the soil, getting ready to plant a ground cover of winter rye when.

When a family of ground hogs (mommy and daddy, big sister and little brother) came out of the briar patch to see what was happening to their grocery store.

It should have made me sad.

(but it didn't)

to see this fat family standing on the edge of the field, obviously wondering what I was doing to their food for the winter.

Which reminds me.

Since we last visited with the groundhogs, several shareholders contacted me to say they would be glad to come out and take a groundhog or two off our hands.

They wanted the groundhogs to eat. you know, cook. As in stew.

Groundhog Stew???

I thought about it for a while and soon realized, 'Well, I eat beef stew, and I eat chicken soup and I've even been known to eat roasted rabbit while in a restaurant in Paris. 

'So why not groundhog? Isn't it just a matter of upbringing, I mean taste and, you know, culture?'

Wouldn't a Hindu pilgrim sitting on those steps in Varanasi that go down to the Ganges be horrified with the thought of eating cow?

(Did I ever tell you the story about the time Wenonah was run down by a Varanasi cow as we were walking down on of the city's narrow, busy back streets? No? Well maybe sometime).