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Skunk Sandwich

One black night, back in pioneer Michigan days, one of the authors of this book slipped down to the meat chest in her nighty for a snack, groped around in the dark till she found some cold meat, made herself what she thought was a rattling good chicken sandwich. And she didn't get any reaction from it until next day when her mother began asking what on earth had become of that skunk she'd cooked for its oil and set in the meat chest to cool. Such an exotic sandwich is only occasionally encountered by some zealot seeking to be mentioned in Tarzan's Who's Zoo. For, like olives and Irish whiskey, or winkles with buttermilk, you've got to learn to like them. Even the hardiest of offside sandwichiers will shy at anything as unexpected as the horsemeat handouts which French friends forced upon us on all sorts of outings along the Riviera, telling us the nags were canned in Chicago and hence it was our patriotic duty to gorp them-we found the meat too sweet, and shockingly sur-realistic.