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Show 89 I ran back to the raft, spattered with mud and pursued by hordes of mosquitoes. But victorious. At least I was smarter than a red tree squirrel. Because of the mosquitoes we pushed off shore and floated slowly down the clear green waters of Lake Laberge. While I had been hunting, the queen had again decorated the raft with woodland flowers. And as we rowed out, a trail of fragrant blossoms followed in our wake, "I'll cook our supper tonight," I said proudly, "You just putter around in the garden." I skinned and cleaned the squirrel, and put it to soak in salted lake water. Tip eyed it suspiciously during the day as it soaked in the frying pan. "Do you know how to cook squirrel?" she asked. "Of course," I answered, hoping Pa's old Wyoming rabbit recipe worked with Yukon squirrel. I rummaged through our supplies, looking for a can of evaporated onions. That evening, drifting with the current down Lake Laberge, I cooked my first wild game-fried squirrel, smothered in evaporated onions. The aroma from that frying pan outdid Wyoming rabbit, I was proud to share it with the queen. The queen drew away in disgust. "It looks dead." "It is," I said sharply. "Just like the fish we eat." She lifted the squirrel with a fork, dangling it by one hapless leg. "It looks murdered," she said. And she dropped it |