Turtle soup where to buy

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Shop now. I took some solace in that. Just then, Ronnie, a hunter, caught one swimming by. It bumped his leg and with lightning reflexes, he grabbed the tail, thick as a forearm, and held it up.

It was big and his fierce head angled straight at me as I approached, a sharp beaky mouth opened in fury, hoping for a finger as he got lowered into a sack.

Ricky trudged over, his arm now speckled with red dots of blood from poking past dozens of brambles and thorny bank growth. He plunged in, up to the elbow and then to the ball of his shoulder, the side of his face pressed into the muddy side of the creek bank, his feet taking the stabilizing stance of a linebacker. Cheers went up, praise was generous, and one of the boys with a gunnysack ran over for the honor of toting the prize.

Cleaning a turtle is not easy. First, there is the killing, and there is nothing to say here except you need a really sharp knife and a swift hand. I lopped the head off, drained the blood, and commenced with the hard part: Cutting out the bottom of the shell, the plastron, separating it from the carapace. Inside are the organs and an ample amount of yellow fat, which is not at all desirable.

In the shell those two parts are nearly separate, barely connected by a double strip of loin nestled into its own bony cage in the center well. At any house with a well, there might be one or two turtles hanging out in the nearby puddles. I ran across accounts of people finding turtles here and there and tossing them into the water barrel at the well until there were enough to invite friends over for a frolic. Easy access to turtle was eliminated when we piped water directly into the house, allowing the once-visible turtle to withdraw into the creeks and swamps, back to the muskrat dens where Ricky and Bud still look for them every year.

Ricky generously let me bag about eight pounds of neck and legs on ice, along with some of the loin still locked into the shells. Once a year, Smith cooks cooter soup according to his own recipe, which is based on the kind of preparation that would have been familiar to presidents of yore.

While we boned the legs and the necks, we roasted the loin in the shell with some butter and herbs in a degree oven for 30 minutes. Afterward, with some intense poultry-shear wrestling, I eventually popped that piece of meat from its bony cage. It was about the size of a small chicken cutlet, only slightly tough.

The aroma was bright, clean, and meaty—somewhere between crab and beef—a smell that million years of evolution were telling me, yes. A half-hour of simmering later, we scooped ourselves some dark red bowls. If you mark waterborne foods along a continuum, with the sweet, rich taste of, say, fresh crab or salmon or lobster on one side, and on the other the strong marine flavor of mackerel, bluefish, or trout, turtle falls squarely in the savory phylum.

So sous chefs, managers, waiters, and bottle-washers were coming and going—stocks started, cornbread cooked, tables scrubbed down.

One eagerly wanted a taste but another wanted nothing to do with it. But there may be yet another explanation: There was a big shift in tastes somewhere after World War I, Freedman told me.

Menus from that time routinely offered everything from roasted snipe and plover to rabbit hash, mutton cutlets, and oxtail. And I can testify that gutting and cleaning turtle is a big hassle and a poor candidate for any kind of industrial streamlining. Take the sausage Ricky was cooking for breakfast that first morning.

The boys were down at the creek fishing out little brim and tossing them in a barrel to be cooked later, and Ricky was telling me that I had to give the sausage a try. Get the recipe for Turtle Soup ».

Two quintessential holiday ingredients come together in one dish.