When Life Hands you an Alligator, Make Alligator Stew
My grandmother lived on a couple of acres in the tiny town of Taylorsville, Mississippi, population around two thousand, give or take a few. It was a one stop light city, with a single street making up the entire downtown, had a large Piggly Wiggly, and its fanciest restaurant was the always popular and ever crowded Sonic on the corner. Now, there’s nothing wrong with a Sonic. God knows I love a good banana milkshake from time to time.
I was related to half of the town. My uncles were in charge of the volunteer fire department and my aunts were responsible for the local church choir as well as all the town gossip. I felt like royalty in that place. I loved every chance I got to escape the hustle and bustle of the metropolitan city of Jackson to visit the slow paced, small town.
Right behind my grandmother’s modest home rested a perfect fishing pond nestled among majestic pine trees and centered right in the middle of the pasture “over yonder”, as my beloved granny would say. It was where I learned to bait my own hook, whether it be live crickets or dirt covered worms, and perfectly distance them from the classic red and white plastic bobbers. I’m fairly certain this hands on talent is what sealed the deal when landing my current, avid outdoorsman husband.
It was my Uncle Ed who I remember fishing with the most. He’d help carry the long cane poles down behind the house and get my cousins and me set up to catch a big one. He’d find an overturned bucket or a green and white lawn chair and position it near one of his famous sweet spots. Maybe it was his loud, Tommy Lee Jones-esq voice I remember or that when he cleaned the fish, he popped out the eyeballs with his trusty pocket knife just to make the kids squeal. Either way, Uncle Ed is synonymous with my memories of that fishing hole. And it was Uncle Ed who put an alligator in that hole, thus ending my illustrious fishing career.
I don’t know what got into my Uncle Ed’s mind to put a baby alligator in my grandmother’s pond. There were so many fish that needed to be caught! The bream and bass were happy as can be in their habitat, not worrying about the predator about to enter their world. Before the arrival of that prehistoric lizard, they only had to dodge an occasional hook or the small jaws of a sneaky snapping turtle. I remember I was around ten or eleven years old when the monster stole my favorite pastime. Even then I knew that alligator would only grow and eventually roam through the pasture looking for other things to eat besides fish. Maybe one of the feral cats my grandmother kept feeding? Maybe one of her precious grandchildren like myself? How could she possibly know she was fattening them all up to be the perfect portion for the Taylorsville gator?
Over the next couple of years that alligator grew bigger and bigger. I hardly stepped foot outside the sliding glass doors that led out to “over yonder”, fearful the alligator would be hiding in the bushes ready to snatch up a small mammal, as Wikipedia claims larger alligators like to eat. I lost sleep over it. The gator visited me in my dreams, always lurking around my favorite fishing spots, ready to pull me in the pond with him. I could hear him growling through the murky water as I slept, when in all actuality I was hearing the muffled snores of my father through the adjacent bedroom wall. My favorite cane pole sat lonely and unused in my grandmother’s carport closet, bobber and hook still attached and ready to go. Alas, I dared not venture to the pond. I knew he would be waiting.
I remember being about thirteen when my grandmother told me I should go fishing. I laughed, knowing she knew I would never step foot near her pond again. I argued with her and sternly told her Uncle Ed had ruined my favorite pastime, and that she knew better than to tell me to go down there. Granny smiled, stirring a well-loved pot on the stove, then said to me, “Oh, Ed has taken care of that old gator. He’d gotten too big, so it’s fine to go fishing. But before you run down yonder do you want some lunch?”
Confused, I looked at my granny, knowing she would never lie to me. “I guess so. What are we having?”
“Fresh alligator stew of course!”
Right then and there, my fishing hiatus had ended. I devoured that stew, which tasted more like a fresh chicken gumbo than what I thought alligator would have tasted like. Part of me did wonder if I was in fact eating an alligator or if it was a story my granny told me to overcome my fear. After all, it seemed like a small pot for a giant gator. I casually looked in the fridge, wondering if there was something left like a part of a tail. It seemed like gator tail would be something us southerners could eat on during the week, like a leftover turkey or honey baked ham. But no gator.
Needless to say, I went on to cast many a line in that pond, however my bounty never seemed quite as plentiful as it had been before the monster came. I guess, the moral to this story is, when life hands you alligators, you just have to make some alligator stew.
Attached is a delicious recipe for Alligator Stew. And for those who aren’t brave enough to try it, I’ve attached some of my favorite alligator finds from Alexa Pulitzer of New Orleans. Or, you could simply just substitute chicken or make it vegetarian and serve over rice.
https://alexapulitzer.com has some of my favorite stationery, cups, napkins, etc. The alligator is a classic!
For the fancy ladies in your life, Alexa Pulitzer has partnered with Bene handbags to benefit the Preservation Hall Foundation in New Orleans. Their mission is to protect, preserve, and perpetuate traditional New Orleans jazz.
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