A humid Thursday in Frog’s Holler, and Colonel Buford Xavier Bass was banging on Possum’s door wearing a chef’s toque made from a bleached feed sack and an apron reading “KISS THE COOK.”
“Possum!” Buford bellowed, waving a spatula. “The culinary revolution has arrived!”
Possum squinted over his coffee. “Last time you held that spatula you were pryin’ a raccoon out your engine block.”
“DETAILS! I watched the Food Network for three days. I’m practically a gourmand.”
Buford’s latest scheme: “BASS’S BACKWOODS BISTRO” — a food truck acquired from Cooter Jenkins for “future considerations.” The rusted van had one working door and a menu written in permanent marker featuring items like “Possum Poutine” and “Buffalo Frog Legs with Gochujang Glaze.”
“Your ‘gochujang’ is just hot sauce and molasses, ain’t it?”
“And a SECRET ingredient.”
“Which is?”
“Can’t tell ya. It’s in the name.”
By noon, Buford had parked outside the Piggly Wiggly. A trucker ordered the Possum Poutine — tater tots drowned in gravy with “artisanal cheese crumbles” that were clearly shredded Velveeta sprinkled with paprika.
The trucker took a bite. “It ain’t bad.”
Buford gasped like he’d won a Michelin star. “THE CRITICS APPROVE!”
Then came the lunch rush. Flush with confidence, Buford began flambéing things that should not be flambéed in a made-up French accent. “ZEE SECRET TO GOOD CUISINE IS CONFIDENCE AND BUTTER!”
That’s when the deep fryer caught fire.
Possum watched as Buford, in a stroke of genius, threw flour at the grease fire — creating a fireball that singed the awning and sent a group of church ladies scattering.
“IT’S CALLED CHARRING! IT’S A TECHNIQUE!”
Sheriff Cletus arrived to find Buford beating the flames with his chef’s toque.
“Don’t even want to know,” Cletus sighed, reaching for his ticket book.
“But Sheriff,” Buford protested, face smudged with soot, “you gotta try the buffalo legs before they’re COMPLETELY destroyed!”
From across the lot, the elderly man who’d declined Buford’s food shook his head.
“That big one ain’t right.”
Later, Possum found Buford sat on his porch poking a melted spatula. “Silver linin’, Possum — I just invented fire-roasted cuisine with emergency suppression. That’s gotta impress them food shows.”
Possum took a long breath. “Buford, your truck is a scorched hunk of metal.”
“TEMPORARY SETBACK! Which is why I’m already workin’ on BASS’S BACKWOODS BAKE SNO-CONE STAND! Less fire, more profits!”
Possum closed his eyes. “Lord, give me strength.”
To be continued… (Probably after the health department finishes and Buford pays Cooter for the van.)