I’m driving down Hwy 70 in rural Fulton County. To a boy growing up in Henry County in the 1960s, any mention of Fulton County meant Atlanta. Busy highways, wall to wall people, more concrete buildings than you could count.

But here, at least in the south end of Fulton County, the old farm steads and dirt roads remind me that a little bit of country can be found almost anywhere. Everywhere you look there’s miles and miles of pastureland, deep woodlands, and winding creek bottoms. They might have a Fulton County sticker on their vehicle tag, but these here folks ain’t from the city.

One of the benefits of stepping into Marion’s life the last couple of years has been the privilege of being introduced to some of the good folks who call this place home. Hard working, fun loving, country folk. They’re my kind of people.

Today I’ve been invited to the deer cooler to help out in the annual right of passage known as “making the stew.” It’s colder than your average day in Georgia. Snow flurries are falling and blowing across the road sideways. Gale force winds are whipping the trees. The wind chill is somewhere close to 4°. I’m layered up like an Eskimo.

Now, stew making is nothing new. When I was a kid and my dad and I belonged to the hunting club down at High Falls, we’d ride down that way and hang out with the men who stood around the fire and the pots. Rabbit and quail, maybe a little beef and venison, corn and tomatoes. It all went into the pot and simmered until somebody said it was right.

Sixty years later, those who hunt and gather and live off the land are still making stew.

The recipe is the key to a good stew. We all know that. The southern cookbooks are full of recipes on how to make the best Brunswick stew in the land. But if you’ve ever tried any of those recipes and were unimpressed, then you understand how valuable the right recipe can be.

Marion’s family has been in charge of today’s recipe for who knows how long. Maybe over 50 years. Her father-n-law, Rex, was in charge of the stew back 40 years ago when she came into this circle of stew makers. I imagine he got it from his forebearers. And when he passed, Marion’s first husband, Mike, took over. And now the recipe belongs to her and her daughter, Charlie. They are the keepers of the Laster Brunswick Stew.

Now before you start licking your lips in hope of me revealing the family secret, forget it. Recipes like this one are sacred, and all who are allowed to enter the circle are sworn to a code of silence. Men have disappeared and have never been heard from again for lesser crimes. My lips are now sealed.

We turn off the paved road and ride through the pasture gate, following the two-track lane over the hill and out of sight. Not only is the recipe a secret, even the location is hidden from prying eyes. I feel a little bit like an old moonshiner on his way back into the woods where he keeps his corn mash.

David and Renee run the deer cooler. Up until a couple of years ago, not long after I met Marion, they ran their own processing operation under the name of D&R Deer Cooler. Marion and most of her family have worked with them during deer season for over 30 years. The deer cooler crew is like family. When you’re processing somewhere in the neighborhood of 1700 deer a season, you spend a lot of time together.

The deer cooler today is new and is owned by a private individual. David moved all his equipment over here and runs things for the new owner. It’s a lot less deer these days, but a lot less hassle. And it still gives the crew a place to make stew.

I back the truck up the hill beside the pole barn. A large commercial cooler and freezer are under one side of the barn. At the far end is an enclosed room built for processing the steaks, tenderloins, chops, and ground meat. Inside are all the right tables and equipment for getting the job done. There’s a smooth concrete floor with a large drain in the middle for clean-up.

And…it’s heated inside.

I’m unloading massive cooking pots and burners out of the back of the truck. The wind is doing its best to cut my earlobes off at my neck.

David says, “We’re gonna put the cookers inside this year.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” I said.

Rocky and Christine are here. They’ve both had a long connection to this group. If you bring a deer to the cooler and want a mount done, they’re the folks to call. Rocky makes the plaques. Christine does the mounts, mostly European mounts these days.

“Nobody wants to pay the price for a traditional head and shoulder mount anymore,” Rocky says. “The European mounts are the way to go.”

I’ve seen some of their work, and believe me, they make a beautiful mount.

“Hey Marion,” Rocky shouts across the room. He cuts his eyes over at me. “Who was that other fella you had here with you last year?”

He’s funny.

Marion scrunches up her face. “I think his name was Fred…I can’t remember.”

We’re hand pulling meat off the bone. I’m up to my elbows in grease and fat. Every tray is run through the grinder. The pots are simmering.

You wanna know how it all goes together? Nice try. All I can tell you is that Charlie is in charge of the Laster blend. David contributes. Marion gives her opinion. I stand by with a dumb look on my face. But Charlie apparently has the gift.

“Give me another quart of that,” she says.

Bobby, her husband, is stirring with a short, wooden boat paddle. In fact, there are three pots with boat paddles going. Charlie just looks at the stew and decides it doesn’t look right. We add another batch.

“That looks better,” she says. “See the froth around the edges.”

I look like I know what I’m looking at. Charlie adds a pinch of this and a scoop of that.

Rocky learns a new word. “Looks frothy to me,” he says.

I’m the new guy. I carry stuff, open cans, and wash tables. But they finally let me have a turn at one of the boat paddles. Next year, I’m making longer paddles. I kept burning my hands.

When it came time to taste test, Charlie pulled out her spoon and sampled each pot. Who am I kidding, we all got spoons. Charlie made some last minute adjustments to the mix. One pot was better than the other two. More adjustments.

By the time we finished making up quart containers and counted up the total, we had made 41 gallons of some of the finest Brunswick stew this side of heaven.

I wish I could tell you more, but I like living too much.