Pete’s Possum Pie

“The only good possum is a dead one.” This quote sums up the New Zealander’s attitude toward this small furry marsupial that is protected in Australia and runs rampant in New Zealand. There are 70 million possums in New Zealand, according to the official census. Since possums are nocturnal and skittish, there are likely a few more here. At a count of 70 million they outnumber the humans 70 to 4 and the sheep 2 to 1. That’s a lot of possums.

In case you’re not in the know, a possum is a marsupial (carries its young in a ventral pouch, like kangaroos and wallabies) that looks like a cross between a rat and a cat. It’s about two feet long with small sharp claws (for climbing), a long, bare, prehensile tail (for hanging and balance), a long snout and large reflective eyes (like a raccoon). They have very fine, soft, brown to grey fur.

Possums eat only the newest growth on the vegetation of New Zealand, and so inhibit the productivity of the vast expanse of rainforest, especially on the west coast of the South Island. To be precise, they consume 21,000 tons of new vegetation every night. Every night. Yes, that means every time the sun comes up in New Zealand, 42,000,000 pounds of vegetation have been eaten, processed, and excreted by possum GI tracts. And used to make more possum babies, of which there are many in a litter. (They reproduce like rabbits, in fact.)

So what do you do with possums in a country where they’re not native and so destructive to the native habitat? First, you run them over with your car. On our bus ride from Wanaka to Fox Glacier we had a couple of folks who saw a dead possum on the side of the road. Considering the animal “cute,” these folks emitted a collective “Awww,” as if to say, “How sad that the poor cute thing is lost to the world.” The driver came over the intercom—because he wanted us all in on this lesson in New Zealand culture—and said, “Bullocks! There will be no weeping and moaning over possum roadkill. If anything, we’ll drink to its demise. If you’re ever driving around New Zealand and see a live one, run it over!” He then proceeded to explain the background to such a cultural hatred of the species.

You can also kill possums (which, as should be clear by now, New Zealanders take great pleasure in doing) and use their pelts for all sorts of clothing and home goods. One of the most expensive materials in the New Zealand clothing industry is merino wool (especially soft wool made from a specific variety of sheep found in New Zealand) blended with possum fur. Since possum fur and merino wool are the same thickness, they can be blended together. The resultant fabric is über-soft. If you’re not into wearing possum remnants, then the least you can do is hang the pelt on your wall and say that you’ve done your bit for nature conservation in New Zealand.

Disclaimer: Remember, kids, don’t kill possum in Australia. It’s against the law and the Greenies over there will drink to your demise instead. Make sure you’re in the right country Down Under before you take off on your possum hunt!

Finally, you can eat possums. This hadn’t really occurred to me until our bus stopped somewhere between Franz Josef and Hokitika on the west coast at a place called “The Bushman’s Centre.” As it turns out, “Bushman” is New Zealander for “hick” or “redneck” or “hillbilly.” The tourist centre (at the doors of which you were greeted by large plastic statues of red-eyed possums) was an architectural marvel after the shanties of bayou Louisiana and rural West Virginia. There were signs at the café making fun of the “city-slicker” drinks served in places like Auckland, Wellington, and Wanaka: “long black,” normally referring to a half espresso, half water, was understood by a Bushman to be “Michael Jordan”; a “flat white,” akin to a latte in many areas, was here “an Englishman run over by a car.” Outside on a fence post sat a toilet bowl with a sign that read, “Ladies’ toilet.” Quite a place to take tourists. I wonder if New Zealanders bring their kids here to see how the other half lives.

Oh, and they serve “Pete’s Possum Pie.”

Pete is the Bushman’s version of Mikey from the old Life cereal commercials. From all the things labeled with his name on the menu, it seems that Pete would eat anything the other kids wouldn’t eat. Next to the glass case with sandwiches labeled “pig, tomato, and cheese,” was a heated cabinet with “possum pies: $4.00.” Like a beef pot pie—you know, the kind you get in the freezer section of your local grocery store—but with possum.

Perhaps it is the fact that New Zealanders refer to possums as “vermin”; perhaps it is because the visage of a possum resembles that of a large rat; perhaps it is because it’s a soft furry animal that, the last time you saw one, was flat on the hot asphalt with a tire tread running down its back; whatever the reason, there’s a visceral response to the idea of eating possum. The initial thought of it is sickening. Only a Bushman, someone with baggy overalls and a penchant for the obscene, would consider eating possum. But here it was: Pete’s Possum Pie.

The answer is yes: I paid my four dollars and ate one possum pie. Possum tastes surprisingly like chicken.

~emrys