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It was a cool fall day, his Millie was off to the grandkids, he picked me up and up to a thing called duck camp we went. It was too early for ducking, but not too early for tending blinds, checking anchor strings, kindling, firewood, eating crisp hard hand apples doing whatever he figured on doing, and his dog Trigger ate every apple core we tossed it.
Set the stove just before crawlin’ in and could that man snore, my goodness, sometime, who knows when I fell asleep, in a blink, there was the smell of coffee, a very new friend, warm to the hand, warm to my innards, I took to coffee really quick.
Then that black sheet of cast iron stove top was smoking, he’d ladle out the batter, first one off the grill, that was Trigger’s, heaped me a few, him just the same, and then he would pour a mixture of fresh fried bacon grease in a small pan of simmering maple syrup, made it look buttery, the taste was beyond amazing. It was sweet sticky tasty warmth. I’d drank the stuff just like that but he liked it too.
It was some for him, some for me, but never a drop wasted.
In the fall of 1977, second week of September, Saturday morning early, I had my last serving, didn’t know it would be, or I’d a eaten a whole bunch more of it.
- The Trout Whisperer
