As far as I know, I’ve only eaten roadkill twice. The first time, I was dosed — I knew my friend to be a hunter, and thought the venison I was eating was the victim of first-degree murder. Then my friend said “well, when I found it…” and I realized we were talking involuntary deerslaughter. It was roadkill, and of uncertain provenance, too – not organically free-range run over by my friend, but run over by someone else and discovered freshly dead alongside a Colorado highway.
I forged ahead through my steak. It wasn’t bad, but I later had regular old premeditated-murdered venison and it was better.
The other time was just last weekend, the morning after the Derby party. Our Louisville-born hostess fired up the crockpot for the gourmet roadkill brunch of Foolhardy Grouse That Thought It Could Take on a Ford Focus. I had a small slice of white meat, and it tasted fine.
Late last night, driving home from the ferry after working late, I swerved to avoid a possum. Because I looked at its leering, underworldy face, and did not feel hungry at all.