Escargone

I had a boyfriend. He was a vegan. Until.

Every year, when John planted our backyard vegetable garden, he found himself crushing an entire harvest's worth of snails underfoot. It was obviously a waste—of life, of energy, and of perfectly good nutrition. So what if—John hazarded to ask me on a foggy May day, beat-up garden shoes smudged with freshly tilled soil—we ate them instead?

"You can eat them," I said. "I'll watch."

So began John's foray into heliciculture, or snail farming. For several months, here's what he did:

1. Headed into the yard in the evening, when it was moist, to harvest snails. He found them in the damp, leafy places. Note: easy to catch.
2. Placed the snails in a shaded enclosure, at 6-10 slowpokes per square foot. A wood box with a secured mesh lid worked well, allowing for plenty of fresh air.
3. Kept the enclosure leafy and damp by filling it with plants, veggie scraps from the kitchen, and a shallow (but wide) water dish—and misting with a spray bottle whenevah.

In a few of months, John had almost 200 snails. (They bred, even.) In August, when at least 60 were plump for the kill, he sequestered them in a tank with nothing but water and cornmeal, the requisite pre-kill cleanse. And, a week later, we invited friends for a feast of escargot.

It was good, peeps. Butter, garlic, wine sauce—the whole neuf . I even ate a few, and found them a bit rubbery, sort of a mushroom/clam hybrid, with a dusky flavor that was largely eclipsed by the garlic butter. Our guests—including a six-year-old—chomped them down with glee.

Want to blow the lid off your own dinner party? Follow the instructions above. And in the meantime, enjoy some snail-on-snail action.