Category Archives: hunting

hunting, random thoughts

The Punk-Rock Parallels and Perils of Hunting in the 21st Century

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There are some things that many of you don’t know about me, and sometimes that is for the best.  I work in a corporate environment and frequently people learn something new about my personality and they say “Well, that’s a surprise…”
And they’re not always saying that just because I don’t look like a ‘typical’ hunter.
I don’t drive a big 4×4.  I don’t have a drawl or a regional accent or even any ‘rural’ affectations.  I’m not politically conservative, and I don’t talk about guns or ammunition at all.  And thus some people are downright shocked when it comes up that I am a hunter.  And I used to think there was something wrong with me…perhaps I wasn’t doing it right?  Maybe I wasn’t as serious a hunter as I thought I was.  Was I a ‘closet hunter?  And I’m not talking about the kind of person who goes to housewares stores looking for cabinetry.  Maybe I wasn’t proud enough? Maybe I needed posters and bumper stickers?
That was when I realized that there wasn’t something wrong with me.  There was something wrong with all the people judging the book by its cover.  I mean  isn’t that just typical urban/suburban nonsense to assume that everyone who hunts has to be some dip-spitting, plaid and camo wearing, foul-talking, beer-swilling, blood-lusting hillbilly?  Just like those insulated city-dwellers to not have a clue about the wilderness and what nature is really all about…not the way us hunters do.  I mean, how hypocritical could you be to have a negative view of hunting and still eat meat from a grocery store?  To weep when someone shoots a deer, but to stomp on earwigs and spiders?  What a load of elitist, liberal, B.S.? Right?
And after thinking that way for a while, I realized that something wasn’t wrong with them and something wasn’t wrong with me.  Something was wrong with all of us.
I went through a similar crisis of identity when I was late in high-school and into my early university days.  You see, you may not believe it (again with the preconceived stereotypes) but I’m really into punk-rock.  I mean really into it.  I have thousands of dollars of CDs, because I still buy hard-format music (that’s right I’m just that much a punk-rock hipster and support those bands accordingly).  I have spent close to equal amounts of money on going to concerts and buying band merchandise in the form of posters, decals, hoodies, and t-shirts because unlike the ‘big’ label artists, most of the bands I follow are two or three bad merchandise weeks away from ceasing to be a band and resuming a transient life of itinerant work and squatting in homeless shelters.  Late in high-school I started to develop the classic identity assertion; dressing strangely, getting drunk at house parties and lying to my parents about it, blaring loud music and generally being an insipid, dopey kid.  In university I went even further, adopting bizarre haircuts (yes I did do the mohawk and ripped jeans look for a while) and going to obscure philosophy classes and workshops in coffee houses where I talked about evil conservative governments, and social activism, and generally became an even more insipid and irritating young adult.
But the whole time I was trying to be a hardcore conservative, country-talking, liberal-bashing, chest-slapping hunting stereotype, I was still buying album after album of nihilist, socially progressive, free-thinking punk rock.  Hell, I was even getting into ‘real’ country…not this modern cookie-cutter nonsense, but real dyed-in-the-wool, gritty down home country and rockabilly.  Not because I’m some music snob, but because the message spoke to me.  And those messages were ‘Do it your own way’ and ‘don’t let anyone control or determine who you are’ and ‘The rights of people matter, and no one can take those away’.  These are, coincidentally, the same messages I hear in a lot of the discourse on modern hunting.  Don’t believe me?  Pick up a Petersen’s and tell me that’s not a punk rock publication at heart.  They do it their own way and agree with them or not, they are going to keep doing it that way.  I’m not for all their views, but they write some darn good hunting stories there and ultimately that is what I’m paying for.
And the whole time I was in philosophy and politics seminars trying to come up with a solution to world hunger or disprove the existence of god (or prove the existence of god for that matter, because frankly, you can’t do either), or the hours spent trying to impress people with how I was a hip, progressive, modern intellectual I was wishing I was in a goose blind watching the birds lock-up and drop into the decoys or I was dreaming of leaning against a tree on a steely November morning listening for a deer to come tip-toeing through.  Because that message spoke to me too, and that message is (or at least I think it is) that there are things out there that are well beyond my control and understanding, and wild animals reside in a plane of comprehension so utterly foreign to humanity that the best we can hope for is the thrill of deceiving them enough so that we can pursue them, observe them at close quarters, and if we’re lucky, take one home for the cookstove.
Both of my ‘constructed’ identities were false.  I couldn’t be an abjectly fanatical hunter and fall victim to the patterned entrapments of that culture.  I didn’t want to own a big truck, and I didn’t care about Toby Keith, and I certainly had enough of a conditioned distrust of the institutions of god and country thank you very much.  But I could not likewise be a card-carrying social progressive and dismiss the economic and ecological value of hunting and fishing, or place the rights of animals above even the rights of humans, or deny the importance of the hunting tradition in the way it shaped who I was, because growing up in a family that hunted imprinted a love of both the raw wilderness and the pursuit of game on me that was indelible.
Sometimes I could not relate to a conservative hunting establishment in the same way I couldn’t relate to liberal academic establishment.  Which was when I learned how stupid those labels and paradigms really are.  Because, the funny thing was, when I realized that I didn’t fit into either of those archetypes comfortably, I found exactly where I fit in.
For me that place was here.  It is where I am now.
So what’s the point of this entire oh-so-boring confessional from a man that most of you never have (and probably never will) meet?  Just so much free-thought I guess, spurred recently from an observation I made in our modern era’s ubiquitous social media.
In my ‘following’ of certain people I noticed a dichotomy.  Literally half of the people I followed would be typified as the “hunting community”.  These people (and for some I’m sure it is strictly a PR exercise designed to keep their sponsorships…either that or they are going through the identity construction I went through over a decade and a half ago) spent the last few days spewing hackneyed nonsense about gun control, and the resurrection of their personal savior (even though, sadly, many spelled resurrection or even ‘risen’ incorrectly), and the granfalloon trappings of NCAA rivalries which ultimately mean nothing but are still used as a barometer of relative regional worth.  And I was at first amazed that people cared about stuff like this.  But really, I followed them not for their religious or political or social commentary, but because they loved the outdoors and hunting as much as I did, and that they told good stories, and that they understood what I understood about the importance and value of our shared hunting experiences.
The rest of the people I followed were the comedians, writers, thinkers, social activists, and musicians that spoke to, informed, and appealed to the rest of who I am.  I guess for some this may seem schizophrenic or convoluted, and perhaps you may even think it hypocritical (yes, I buy records from a band of hardcore vegans with semi-Communist political viewpoints…but holy crap can they ever shred a guitar solo and their drummer is simply one of the fastest that I’ve ever seen…after all that is what I’m paying for) but it does not matter what you think.  Just as it does not matter what I think.
Where it gets dangerous is when you or I fall into the easy trap of letting the words, actions, thoughts, and ambitions of others over take our own values and we become nothing more than the mouthpiece of someone else’s agenda.  It is when you stop being who you are and start ‘acting’ like someone you think you should be.  Sometimes it is obvious, but usually it is insidious and slow.  Just because I hunt and my Dad hunts and Ted Nugent hunts and my cousin Dane hunts, we are not all even remotely the same person.  Thinking and behaving otherwise would be ridiculous.
That is the parallel and the peril of the modern world.  Because I can almost fully assure you that Fred Bear, Jack O’Connor, Peter Hathaway Capstick, Tom Kelly, Robert Ruark, and others in the pantheon of modern hunting greats had no time for any of that crap; they were in it for the hunt.
And maybe, in our efforts to define ourselves as hunters, we’ve forgotten that last bit.
hunting, varmint hunting

Nothing Dainty About It

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There wasn’t much that was keeping the moon from being full on the drive up to my cousin Luke’s house with my wife and two kids (one of which decided an appropriate course of action would be to scream for two straight hours from the backseat).  I kept thinking that on that moonlit Friday night in late January plenty of coyotes would be up rambling around straight through the wee hours of the morning.  The plan was to head out early on Saturday and cut some tracks.  Then we’d put the dogs on the coyote’s trail and hope for some shooting.
Mother Nature (if that even is her real name) had other plans.
Sometime in the very early morning, while I was snug abed and dreaming of making a Hail Mary hero shot on a running coyote, it started to snow.  And not those fluffy, pastoral flakes from the Coca Cola commercials you see at Christmas.  No, this was the blinding, wind-driven variety of snow that makes you question your sanity at getting up and heading out hunting in it.  And the wind-chill factors were in the negative teens, so that made it all the better.
On the plus side, most of our coyote hunting is done from nice warm trucks, and for the first two hours that is precisely where my cousin and I staked ourselves out.  Eventually the wind let down and the white-out became nothing more than a snowy morning.  Luke and I hopped out and went to find a couple of likely spots in a block of woods that often held coyotes, and as sure as it was wintertime, the dogs got on one pretty quickly.  In some ways our coyote hunting operation (of which I am but a minor, very occasional participant) is a pretty sophisticated group.  The dogs are GPS tracked, and we are in constant communication via private-channel radios.  When the radio chatter and progress of the dogs made it clear that the coyote had gotten past the blockers and was in an adjacent block we made our way back to the truck.  On the walk (or more accurately the slog through over a foot of snow) back to the truck the sound of gunfire and the radio banter indicated that the coyote had been cornered by the dogs and then killed, we made out for another hunt.  The weather and the sign remained sketchy though so eventually the morning hunt was shut down.  We bought some groceries for a veritable evening feast, and did one last cruise of some likely spots.  Finding nothing we headed home.
After a hearty breakfast and a little family time with our wives and kids, Luke and I saddled up for an afternoon of coyote calling.  If the morning hunt was a bit of a bust, our afternoon foray held promise.  The wind had slackened, and the sun shone through a high ceiling of wispy clouds, and with a FoxPro e-caller we headed first to some old fields in the mixed hardwoods behind Luke’s house.  After a half-hour of intermittent cottontail distress (and anyone who has heard that sound for extended periods knows how my brain was feeling by then) we opted to move on to another spot that had produced previously.  Coyote and fox tracks peppered the fresh snow as we walked our way into the old corral, and as I settled into the leeward side of an old hay bale I was hopeful that this stand was once again going to draw an old coyote out for what he thought was going to be an easy meal.  Minutes in and the wind both picked up the pace and changed direction to make our positions untenable, but we still hung in there, stinging wind and blown snow be damned.  Frustrated, we talked about family and life in general on the walk back to the vehicle before sitting down to commiserate on the next course of action.
We opted for one long drive around a series of concession roads in Dyers Bay, and as we made one of our last runs down a back road we saw three distinct and fresh (we estimated no more than an hour or so old) sets of coyote tracks crossing the road from south to north.  We parked up ahead and walked into a cedar thicket that provided cover from the wind, a natural background to break up our outlines and half dozen good openings to shoot through.  It was our last stand for the afternoon and as good a chance as we’d been presented with all day.  Just under an hour later we walked out cold and frost-nipped (not quite bitten, but not quite comfortable either) with a warm shower, some cold beer and some hot eats on our minds.  Luke hosts a good shin-dig and when a bunch of other friends showed up, the party of chicken wings, French fries, cold beer and good stories lasted deep into the evening.  It almost didn’t matter that all the men (and my three year old son) were relegated to the garage; we ran the deep fryer out of there and leaned against walls, old freezers, and each other as we told shameless lies to one another as our wives likely told unflattering truths about us to themselves.
Luke, his brother Dane, and I all felt no ill effects come the morning alarm, although some others that didn’t go hunting weren’t as lucky, and whereas Saturday had broken with a blizzard, Sunday broke deeply cold but with a high ceiling of thin clouds that exposed the thinnest ribbon of blindingly pink sunrise.  When a person wakes up way too early on a Sunday to chase twenty-five pounds of clever canine, sunrises like that are their reward.
As we cruised the flats, my uncle came on the radio to call in a set of tracks in a likely spot, and just moments later I spotted the coyote trotting along a fence line to the south of our position.  Getting out of the truck I walked into the property and slid a couple of shells into my .243WIN.  The coyote popped out just about 200yards, and the call came over the radio not to shoot; at that point I had the crosshairs on his shoulder and I had to made a very tough decision not to take a crack at the old dog.  Moments later Luke had put the hounds on him, and when he made his way across the road into another block, he eventually met his end at the rifle of another hunter staked out there.  Not long after we had the hounds on a coyote in a cedar filled few acres that sat like a postage stamp on the snowy envelope of snow that had fallen between the local cemetery and a gravel pit.  My cousin and I sat down in the snow next to a mound to the east of the cedar swamp and waited.
For nearly a half hour the wind driven snow needled our faces and did everything it could to break through our coats.  One thing I’ve learned over the years of hunting with dogs (and this is generally true whether you are running coyotes or rabbits) is that when you think the dogs are close, the game is closer.  So it was on that Sunday morning.  As Luke and I stood, we could hear the dogs turn and the melodious cacophony of baying began to circle our way.  Instinctively we both had turned to the sound, and I don’t know about Luke, but I found that without even thinking about it, both hands were on my rifle in anticipation of action.
And action is what we got.
We saw the coyote at over 200 yards and immediately understood that he was heading for the gravel pit just south of our position.  On a sprint, or as much of a sprint as you can put on in deep, boot-sucking snow, Luke and I made to outflank the coyote; either seeing this or thinking better of his gravel-pit escape plan, the coyote began to run broadside to us at a distance that I estimated was initially just under 200 yards from our position.  Luke and I turned and I assumed the position for a kneeling shot.
This is where those who have never tried to shoot a running coyote (that, incidentally, has the added incentive of a few dogs in his slipstream) will chortle at our perceived ineptitude, but Luke and I each put three rounds downrange at the coyote, and he found another gear with every report.  Turning away from us and making tracks for the relative safety of the cedars, the coyote dodged Luke’s third shot as the bullet kicked a puff of snow up behind the now sprinting animal.  I sent my third round out hoping that the hero shot in my dreams was a premonition of glory.  It wasn’t.  The dogs barely paused, and lustily howled and barked as they plunged headlong back into the cedar stand after their prey.
My spent brass was laying in one of earlier footprints, and I took off a glove to retrieve them and reload my rifle.  Luke and I then dissected our failings and told palliative consolations to each other.  Twenty minutes later the dogs had the coyote cornered.  One blast from Tack’s weapon and all was quiet.  The dogs stopped baying, and all there was to hear was the vicious January wind and a crackle over the radio confirming to us that that particular hunt was over.
We helped a fellow hunter pick up a piece of equipment that had fallen from his truck and with a glance at our watches and it became clear that our family duties, and a three hour drive home for me would have to lay low any further chases for us for the day.  I dropped off my radio, and said my goodbyes and obligatory wife jokes to my friends.  It had been a good weekend, and even though I only had a handful of spent brass to show for it, I felt successful.
There is a certain stealthy calm to deer hunting, and a distinct spring rejuvenation to be found in turkey hunting.  Waterfowl hunting can be filled with decrepit weather, but also with the close quarters camaraderie of the blind.  Each has a certain folkloric place in the hunting pantheon, and all are sometimes mythologized in a way that elevates the re-telling of the hunter’s exploits.  But coyote hunting is different.  There is spectacle and brash attitude in chasing the tricksters through the haunts that they know more intimately than a hunter ever could.  There is a brawling, adversarial machismo in the way a dog runs down a coyote and a war-cry fierceness to the frantic baying of a team of dogs as they each try to get to their goal first.  Even calling coyotes is loud, brutal, and impatient.  The screaming and squalls meant to portray the death throes of a rabbit, the yips and chilling howls of challenge, even the simulated struggle of pups is all noise and urgency designed to bring in the reluctant, grey ghosts.  If deer hunting is high church, and if spring turkey hunting is nature shaking off the long winter, chasing a coyote in the snow is a drawn out bar-fight in a freezing cold, snowy parking lot.
The people who do it well are utterly shameless about why they do it, and why they love it.  There’s no rich duck-club snobbery, and no hushed whispers of awe.  If you can follow directions, and are willing to get dirty, cold, and worn out (or all of the above) then you can do it too.  And then you might see why hunters will spend hundreds (if not thousands) of dollars on fuel, guns, calls, and clothes just to chase after a sometimes mangy, but always challenging wild dog.
And if you don’t get it, then at least you can say you tried.
hunting, turkey and turkey hunting

One-Hundred-and-Thirteen Days

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So after an extended hiatus, I’m back.  That isn’t to say that I was not actively writing in the interim, but sadly, none of what I hacked out on the keyboard made it onto this forum.  Why, you may ask?  It just wasn’t good enough in my opinion and some of the writing was downright awful.  There was one promising piece of political vitriol aimed at pretty much everyone in the wake of late-December’s school shooting south of the border, but that didn’t pass the “overnight test”.
Anyhow, here we are in 2013 and I’m of renewed vigour.  2012 is ancient history now, and all the trials and tribulations (as well as the joys) have been filed away for nostalgic review only.  Moving forward, it is time to focus on what matters.  Since all the hunting seasons (barring a couple I don’t really participate in) are closed, the next point of business for me is turkey hunting, which is less than four months away.  That may not seem so close, but it is, and there is oh so much to do.  I’m in the market for some new turkey decoys, I’m always down for buying a new call or two, and now that I’m living in an area where I have significantly more access to local hunting (of both the public and private variety) I’m keen to spend the next few months scouting and getting familiar with the territory.
So what am I thinking?  Well first and foremost, I’ve gone a long time without doing a “Gearhead” post, primarily because I’m fully outfitted from a gear perspective (or I was until I realized I wasn’t…) so once I do some shopping I’ll be putting another one of those out there.  I’ll probably be doing a little light coyote hunting as well, so barring another round of abject failure, I just may have some tales from the woods on that front too.
In terms of the ancient history that made up 2012, our crew had a solid deer season with my Dad connecting on a nice 8-point during the first week of the season (with that deer being the first one to be shot on the family farm it was even more memorable) while my two cousins and my brother all shot deer in the second week.  One of the other fellas in camp for the second week shot a real bruiser as well, while a fifth deer fell to another gun in our group.  So suffice it to say, there’s a whole pile of venison coming my way, which I frankly can’t be more happy about…my stores were depleted you see.  Some of my friends and acquaintances were still out chasing deer until the bitter end on December 31st, while others were swamping around after late-season ducks and geese right up until Boxing Day.  I salute all your respective efforts, but it was way too dang cold for me by December 10th.
I was able to spend an afternoon at the range last month, which was pleasant, although it troubled me only slightly to see other people shoot my guns in a much more proficient manner than I, but what can you do?  A fringe benefit of going to the range is having to buy more ammunition, which requires additional online ballistics research.  It’s been safe to say that I’ve been doing a lot of time over at Hornady’s home page reading about ft-lbs and retained energy.  All my ballistics studies have almost convinced me to buy another rifle…almost.
But none of that detracts from what is coming in one-hundred-and-thirteen days.  I only made one New Year’s resolution this year, and that was to not break my leg again (or the other one, or any other major bones, for that matter) so that I can make up for all the turkey hunting I missed last year when I went down with injury.  Last year seemed to have a freakishly high number of perfect turkey hunting mornings, and I was unfortunate enough to witness them all from a supine position as I was essentially in traction for the whole of April and most of May.  The two days that I limped out and sat for two and three hours respectively were not ‘perfect mornings’ with one being unbelievably mosquito-infested and the other being interrupted by a farmer tilling the one field I had permission to hunt.  But hope springs eternal this year, and it is the plan to hunt as many full days as it takes to tag out on a gobbler.  My wife is already sick of me practicing my slate calling, and it is only going to get worse for her from there.  That reminds me…I need a new facemask as well.  Oh the joys of the turkey hunter’s pre-season.
So that’s what is coming for 2013, more pining for turkey hunting, more lusting after equipment, and more general nonsense from me.  For those of you who are subscribed to this blog or following on Twitter (@getoutandgohunt) I thank you for playing along for another year.  Hopefully I’ll be able to bring some entertainment for 2013.
duck hunting, hunting, recipes

Doing Unhealthy Things With Ducks

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So in the world of blogs, Instagrams, and tweets, I’ve found a disturbing trend afoot…people are actually exercising in preparation for hunting, and they are actually adjusting their diet accordingly to be lean and trim for hunting season.  I hear it called “Hunt Fit” and it is appearing in hashtag after hashtag.  Now this is all well and good if you are going to go chasing elk or sheep or Rocky Mountain goats at high altitude, but otherwise, to me it smacks of a little too much preparation.  Now the hardcore fitness fanatics may instead refer to it as dedication, or motivation, or some other “-ation” and that is fine….I’m not here to disabuse anyone of their right to do whatever it is that they want to do.

But what I want to do is shoot my own dinner and then make it as decadent and over-the-top enjoyable as I can.  Because I #HuntFat.

So in that spirit, here is what I did with some ducks that I had on hand two nights ago.  I can’t describe how good it was, so I’ll just tell you how I did it and then if you want to try it, you can.  This is how I made what I call pan seared duck with mushroom-tarragon cream sauce with a side of mushroom-cumin risotto.  I’m not much for weights and measures, so you may want to read this whole thing first and come up with a plan of attack to make sure it all comes together at the same time.

The Risotto:
Take a standard package of sliced mushrooms and simmer them in a pot with some salt, pepper, and four cups of water.  Why standard store-bought mushrooms?  Because foraging the ones in my suburban backyard seemed like a bad idea.  Don’t boil them, just let them sort of become a hot broth.  This is the stock for the risotto.  I’ll tell you what to do with it later.

Put an 1/8 of an inch coat of olive oil in a pan over medium-low to medium heat and add one diced onion and three minced cloves of garlic.  Do not brown these, just keep them moving until they are soft.  Once soft add the arborio rice.  It absolutely must be arborio rice…why?  Because that is what risotto is made of.  If it isn’t arborio, it is just a rice dish.  But I digress.  Add about a large handful of rice for each person you are cooking for.  The above measurements for mushrooms, onion, and garlic are based on about three large handfuls of rice.  Stir the rice with the onion and garlic until the rice is coated with oil and everything is getting along nicely.  Again, don’t brown any of this stuff.  At this point I also added some ground cumin because it is kind of rustic and smokey, and I like that.

Take a splash of white wine and throw it in the pan with the rice, onion, and garlic.  Not too much, maybe half a glass.  Throw some more wine into yourself if you feel it is necessary.

Once the rice is reduced a bit, turn your attention back to the simmering, hot mushroom broth.  Ladle a few splashes of it into the pan with the rice and then just simmer it until the rice absorbs it.  Once the amount of liquid in the pan starts to get low, throw some more in.  If some of the mushrooms you made the stock with happen to fall in, so be it.  They’re going to go in there eventually anyhow.

Keep doing this until you either run out of stock (you could top up with equally hot water, but why would you?) or until the dish is creamy, but not mushy.  Risotto is funny that way…just keep in mind that you aren’t trying to make rice porridge.

Put in the mushrooms you used for the stock and then add some kind of dairy.  I’ve used cream cheese, heavy cream, and all varieties of cheese.  Friday night I shredded half a block of six-year-old sharp white cheddar and stirred it through the dish.  Parmesan is the standard though.

Once the cheese is melted, I added a bit of chopped basil and then I was very happy with myself.

The Duck:
First things first.  Shoot a duck; a couple of them if you can.  Do this in advance of starting the recipe.

Take said ducks and pluck them.  Skin on is critical to this (in my opinion) so later season ducks with few to no pin-feathers is ideal.  Now butcher the ducks, this recipe is just for the breasts so take the breasts of the ducks and get them as dry as possible.  Braise, slow-cook, or otherwise love the legs; but that’s for another post.

Pre-heat your oven to 450 degrees.  Score the duck breasts (that is cut a checkerboard or cross-hatch pattern in the skin), then put them, skin side down, in a hot pan over medium-high heat.  I put just a little bit of oil in the pan to help the browning along.  Sear the skin side until it is a deep gold-brown colour, then flip them over.  By now, your oven should be heated.  Take the pan (did I mention it should be oven safe?  Okay now I have.) and put it in the oven for about fifteen minutes.  After fifteen minutes take the meat out of the pan and cover it in foil for five to ten minutes.

Slice against the grain into pieces about a 1/4 inch think.  Pour the sauce over it.

Wait, you haven’t made the sauce because I haven’t old you how?  Right.

The Sauce:
Take the pan drippings from the duck and add a splash of whatever liquid you like.  I used white wine (since I had some open) but you could easily use red wine, whiskey, cognac, or any kind of stock (if you have any mushroom stock left, as I did, you could add that too, which I added as well as the wine.)  Just add enough to get the brown bits on the pan to dissolve.  That’s duck flavour and you do not want to waste it.

Once I had all the brown bits off the bottom of the pan, I added some heavy cream to thicken it and a bit of chopped tarragon.  Basil or parsley or oregano would work here too.  Or no herbs.  Whatever.

Reduce this until coats the back of a spoon (or really reduce it into a near syrup) and add just a bit of butter to make it rich.

Drizzle this over the duck meat, or do what I did and float the duck meat in it.  Don’t judge me.

Vegetables:
There are none.  Don’t be ridiculous.

Libations:
I served this with a double dram of Forty Creek Confederation Oak Reserve rye whiskey in a nice glass.  You’ll drink what you like with it, just make sure it is alcoholic so you can really feel like a debauched, well-fed epicurean.

So there you have it.  It might sound a bit too over the top when compared with the simple pleasures of a roast mallard or a smokey stick of Canada Goose jerky, and while those are good too, sometimes it is just nice to really spoil yourself, eat 1000 calories in a single sitting, and not really give a damn about how many sit-ups you’ll have to do in repentance for enjoying the bounty of the hunt.

Because if you are hunting and not eating it, then you are missing out on the best part, friend.