Table of Contents
ALSO BY GEORGIA PELLEGRINI
Food Heroes: 16 Culinary Artisans Preserving Tradition
For T. Kristian Russell
Without you, there would be none of this.
So long as there is lead in the air, there is hope.
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
Prologue
Oh my Lord, oh my Lord, Hollis whispers.
In the next field we can barely make out a set of dark crimson tail feathers moving through the high grass. We move quickly toward the wild turkey, along the levee with our backs bent low, in single file, three of us: a farmer named George Hollis, a man they call the Commish, and me. We are an odd group, me half their size, trying to keep up in too-large-for-me, full army camouflage that I borrowed from my brothers closetremnants from the days he played paintball with his adolescent friends. The others are in proper hunters camouflage with 12-gauge shotguns slung over their shoulders, a couple of plastic turkey decoys dangling from their backpacks, turkey callers clenched between their teeth. They climb up the hill beside the field; I stumble after them in the oversize rubber boots that they bestowed upon me to save me from the snakes. We sit panting behind a tree trunk while Hollis unwraps a piece of camouflage fabric attached to plastic stakes and positions it in front of us as a blind. We wait.
Okay, the Commish says. This birds gonna get to meet Miss Georgia. Hes gonna have Georgia on his mind...
You may be wondering how I ended up here. It was a series of serendipitous introductions, really, a divine aligning of the stars that introduced me to a man named Roger Mancini, a larger-than-life entrepreneur from the Arkansas side of the Mississippi Delta. I had cooked for him from time to time in Nashville, where we have mutual friends, and always found myself reaching deep into my bag of four-star tricks to impress a man so worldly, yet so distinctly a product of the American South.
During one of those dinners, as I glazed a series of Rogers freshly hunted wild duck breasts with orange gastrique, he overheard me telling a friend that I wanted to hunt. Hold on now, Georgia, he said as he sauntered over with a wide-eyed, soulful look, a cigar pressed between his thumb and forefinger, which he pointed at me now, saying, Ive got just the man to teach you. My first cousin; we call him the Commish.
Roger went on to explain that the Commish takes his nickname from the governor-appointed position he has held for many years: commissioner of fish and game for the State of Arkansas, and that he would be honored to introduce me; and then, in the same breath, he moved past me, intent on finding three perfect tomatoes for the Panzenella Salad he had been talking about for some time. It was then that his wife, Betsy, leaned over to me, a glass of Bollinger balanced in her left hand, and said conspiratorially, Down there, the Commish is a bigger deal than the president of the United States.
Many months later in early spring, I was introduced to the Commish at an Arkansas hunting camp, the night before a turkey hunt. He was sitting on a tree stump, holding a large Styrofoam cup filled with ice and whiskey in one hand, and cradling a thick cigar in the other, staring into the fire with a serious expression.
He looked up as they introduced me to him, paused, then offered me a drink and a seat by the fire. He had silver hair and his face bore the faint traces of his Lebanese ancestors who had first inhabited this place a century ago.
You ever shot a gun? he asked, still staring into the fire, his voice settling onto his words like molasses.
Um, no, not really, I said, glancing sideways, feeling the other men at the camp peering at me curiously.
This twenty-gauge should work pretty well, he said, opening the shotgun leaning against his chair to look down the barrel. My daughter Ashley learned on a four-ten because it doesnt kick, but its hard to kill anything with it. The first thing you gotta decide, do you want an automatic or an over an under, which is a double barrelthe classic hunting bird gun. Quail hunters, they all shoot over an unders, thats just kinda the old European influence. For you I would use a twenty-gauge. Its a good turkey gun if you can get em close.
Okay, that sounds good, I say, wanting to fit in as much as possible but clearly failing simply by the way I looked in my button-down shirt and J.Crew blue jeans.
We didnt talk much after that. We just sat there and sipped from our Styrofoam cups and chewed on the crushed ice.
Ill pick you up at five tomorrow morning, he said as I finally got up to leave.
Then he paused and gave me a sober look from his dark eyes through tinted spectacles.
Are you sure bout this? he asked.
Yes, Im sure, I said, my voice unrecognizably high pitched.
A right then. Ill see you tomorrow, he said.
Now through the turkey caller set between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, just twelve hours later, George Hollis lets out the cluck of a female turkey. The male gobbles back from the brush across the field. George calls again and the old turkey calls back again.
Hes responding well, I whisper.
You know what youre supposed to say? the Commish asks.
What? I ask.
Hes gobblin his ass off.
Hollis chuckles.
Youre hanging out with a bunch of old men now; you gotta remember that, the Commish says.
As he speaks, a thin red and black head appears through the clearing on the opposite side of the field. I put my head down into the barrel of the gun and look through the scope to get a better look.
Its such a little head they have, though, I say, my voice shaking. How am I supposed to hit it?
You dont have to get it exactly on him. You just get it close and the spread of the shell pellets will do the rest, the Commish says.
I feel my hand tighten as the old turkey begins to strut toward the plastic decoys that Hollis has dropped onto the field. The bird has begun his mating marchstepping forward regally with his wings behind him, displaying the purple and green shimmering colors of his tail feathers, his red wattle and long, wiry beard swaying to and fro. He keeps coming forward, step by adrenaline-inducing step, but then instead of going toward the decoys to my left, he suddenly moves right.
Hold on, the Commish says. Just hold on a second. I obey, my head and heart pounding in unison.
Get your head down on the gun, he continues. Can you see the red dot on the end of your shotgun?
Yeah, I reply. But I cant see the turkey. What happens if I miss the first shot? I whisper, trying to veil my rising panic.
Dont worry about it, the Commish says, guiding my gun as I look through the scope like a blind man in a maze, with no idea of what is beyond the camo blind or where the ol gobbler is doing his dance. I see nothing but the makeshift fence, the cluster of trees and the field, and beyond that the Mississippi, the color of mercury, moving languidly in the distance.
