Category Archives: Hunting

Making Squirrel Cassoulet: part one

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The essentials:

  • One hip flask of bourbon
  • One cigar
  • A single shot .410 shotgun with shells
  • A beautiful fall day

For a successful cassoulet I find that it always comes down to the choice and use of proper ingredients and tools (and I speak with the wisdom gained from the experience of cooking it once before). So, rest easy with that assurance and let us begin your instruction, with the hunt.

First essential: It has been my private contention that there are not too many bad bourbons in this world. It is for this reason, of course, that we have been, and God willing remain, a mighty people. For a mighty people need a mighty liquor; but only if consumed in moderation and in safe circumstances, such as during a fall hunt, with a loaded gun, for squirrel. The conveyance of that liquid is by means of the hunter’s hip flask, a slim half-pint meant only to sustain (not inebriate) one for the rigors of the field and wood. It should be filled with whatever whisky is ready to the hand. In my case it was a bottle of Four Roses that drew my eye and steadier grasp.

Second essential: Cigars on the other hand can range from the sublime to the truly awful. I was gifted on my recent birthday a couple of dozen cigars by friends that validated the truth of that full range of experience. But when my beloved instructs guests to bring a bottle of wine or whiskey, and/or cigars as gifts, I can be considered blessed before the guests even darken the door. Even for the lifetime supply of Sambuca, in the form of one bottle, that I was made a present of by a dear friend, I will vow to remain humbled and truly appreciative. But we speak of cigars, meaning, that it was a nice fat robusto that I selected, from the fair isle of Hispaniola, to accompany me for this trip into our woods; leaving a birthday gifted vanilla flavored abomination in the humidor (double bagged for the safety of its neighbors) to share, no doubt, with a future visiting nephew.

Third essential: The firearm of choice, and I do have a selection to draw on here, was, as in most instances, the boy’s single shot .410. And for that fact, I do not blush. Hunting the wily tree chicken, the high wire rodent, requires a light touch and a fast swing. I have tried with both 12- and 16-gauge shotguns with modest results. The shorter barrel of the .410 (aka a 37 gauge and sometimes as a 67) gives a wider pattern of shot when one is taking a quick aim. As for instance when, while I had a lit cigar in my mouth while also simultaneously taking a whiz, a gray squirrel popped out thirty feet from me barking on a limb. I was able to successfully cock the gun, swing, shoot, kill, then “reholstering” myself, collected the game, all while taking another puff or two.

Fourth essential: It is, and you may have already picked up on this, somewhat of a sacrilege to be walking and smoking (a cigar, anyway) on a fine day. I agree. Each are separately meditative. However, there were already two squirrels in the game bag at my back when I sat down to take a restorative nip and snip the end of the cigar. The green woods before me were speckled in salmon, reds, and golds on what was one of the most beautiful of Tennessee fall afternoons. The air was a crisp 58 degrees. All was at peace as I sat on the log and reflected… sat and reflected, that is, that my bladder was full. Which is when I stood, answered that call, and shot the third and final target for the cassoulet dish I had planned.

With that success I sat back down, finished the cigar, had another sip from the flask and thought, you know this farming life ain’t half bad. Finally, when with a couple of inches of gray ash remaining of the cigar, I stubbed it out, stood and returned down the wooded path to our home to clean my harvest.

(Next time, part two, in which the steps in preparing a confit of squirrel and cooking the cassoulet will be laid out with the same clear detail as today’s lessons on hunting.)

The Ants and the Grasshopper

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Our mega farm store Rural King was out of both two-cycle oil and bar chain lubricant for my chainsaws. This is the sort of common outage that no longer really surprises. I did not even bother to ask why. Cindy grows tired of hearing me come home and say, “This week, it’s yogurt! They said the truck was delayed.” Every outing it’s something — milk, butter, or, God forbid, toilet paper — those empty shelves, always rotating, never the same, our new normal.

The next meal

That whatever is out of stock typically shows up by the next time I circumambulate the aisles does little to reassure me that nothing has broken. I am not an optimist, though I do play a cheerful pessimist. Which is why I notice with grim fascination and humor the signs that our world of plenty has frayed.

An old friend and I used to debate whether we had too much in this culture. When I mentioned that I aspired to a “genteel poverty” he was dismissive. Well, the reality is that world may just be dawning regardless of one’s aspirations. Certainly, there is plenty that we don’t need. But when the nearby Kroger reduces its bread aisle by half to keep up with ongoing shortages, that is more than noticeable: it is a marker. And as when the global supply of baby formula or cancer drugs is delayed, there are consequences and impacts.

Sometimes it is merely the balance within a particular commodity that is off. That common calibers of ammo for hunting rifles have been hard to find for a few years is not news and concerns only those willing to go out and claim a live animal as the next meal. That the ammo commonly favored by the disaffected for mass shootings is more easily available is a somewhat more problematic concern to the larger society.

Or consider our friends’ elderly mother. Her car was pronounced “totaled” by the insurance company after a modest accident, when a replacement part was not to be found in the supply chain. It would most likely show up, eventually. But it was easier to close out the claim than to wait months or a year for a part to arrive. That there are few cars on any car lot to purchase, and only at a dear price, matters not to anyone but the person in critical need of a vehicle.

Movement of the goods we use to maintain this global lifestyle is principally done via shipping containers. At $1,500 per container, it was a cheap method of transport at the start of 2020. But that cost ballooned to close to $30,000 last year, and it has hovered around $15,000 for the past nine months. All but the most dull-witted can figure out that the cost differential impacts the chain as either a price increase, a delay, or a simple absence of product ordered. Any of the three has a knock-on effect that ripples through the economy, and reaches consumers as shortages and inflation.

Add skyrocketing costs of diesel to the mix, and a profitable store on the West Coast has to close, because the price of sending new books jumped 300 percent, outpacing sales and the cost of goods. Then understand that those everyday profit-and-loss considerations are being factored into every business decision by both mom-and-pop operations and large corporate concerns. The ongoing nuisance shortages like yogurt or two-cycle oil are being amplified exponentially throughout the supply chain, at least in the short term. Factor in timely supply deficits in key parts, fertilizer, and the like, and “nuisance” barely begins to cover our woes. These are only the visible surface cracks of a much deeper structural fracturing of the global economy.

Moving manufacturing back home, then retooling for a national or local consumer economy, seems an unlikely course in these resource- and financially constricted days. And, says my cheerful inner pessimist, there isn’t much we can do to change this trajectory. But there is plenty we can do to provide a little more resilience in our lives, and it’s along the lines of “prepare for changes and expect less.” It is old advice, but growing a garden, developing a basic tool kit of low-tech skills, learning to repair, cultivating friends who share your values and outlook, and stepping outside the 24/7 consumer culture — all can help mitigate.

Time, however, marches on, and it passes the unwary and the unprepared at a more blistering pace than most would have anticipated at the beginning of the journey. Best to be like the ants and start preparing now for our unpredictable future.

On the Farm in December: Mud, Veggies, and Dining on Squirrel

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Water: The rains still fall with the same regularity in December as in most other months. Yet the combination of retreating hours of daylight — just seven days before the solstice — and the diminished grass cover on the ground to hold the water signal the advent of mud season on the farm. My boots are heavier with clay and manure from even the briefest of excursions to the barn or fields.

As the weather turns colder, filling a water trough easily depends on whether I had the foresight to stretch out hoses after the last use so they drained completely. Failing to do so on these below-freezing mornings means finding the hoses frozen solid and the livestock thirsty. Lugging five-gallon buckets of water, one at a time, gives me plenty of time for introspection and kicking my inattentive self.

The garden: Covered with manure and tarps, the south and north gardens await the great reveal in late February, when they’ll be prepped for the coming seasons. Behind the house are a few raised beds with a handful of hardy Italian dandelion greens still holding their own on 22-degree mornings. But the taste at this stage is more bitter than life itself. Between those raised beds and a concrete sidewalk is a marvelous micro-climate where volunteer cilantro still thrives. That most sensitive of herbs has apparently evolved with tough love, in this spot, to grow 10 months out of the year.

Meanwhile, the hoop-house is still brimming with turnip greens, collards, Swiss chard, and Napa cabbages. The snails and slugs are finding the latter delicious. Which, by the act of typing these words, reminds me to slather the Napa with a scoop from the barrel labeled “D.E.” Sounds ominous, I know, but D.E. is simply diatomaceous earth, a go-to organic method for controlling a variety of unwanted diners that feast on my edibles.

Paella and squirrel hunting: Apparently the traditional paella is made with chicken and rabbit. The dish I fixed on Friday night was prepared with chicken and link sausage (and field peas, green beans, and tomatoes). We seldom have rabbit to eat, usually only finding them in the headlights coming up the drive late at night, or while bush-hogging in the fields, or with my hands full in the garden and a shotgun a hundred-yard sprint away.

But squirrel? We have plenty. A friend and I will walk the woods this morning seeking to harvest some for future dinners. I am sure they will make a fine substitute for the rabbit in the next paella dish. And, for the semi-annual sauce piquante d’ecureuil (squirrel sauce piquante), I will need two to three. So, let us call it half a dozen. We just need some cooperative little nut jobs to line up for the feast. Pick your side, my dear readers, and wish one of us luck.

The Blood On Our Hands: revisited

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My father, now 91, fell and broke his hip this past week. Typically, for him, he is already up and walking after a ball-joint replacement. That incident has had me thinking about him, my childhood, and the unique sporting life we enjoyed. Here is one from the archives.

I laid out my shotguns and deer rifle on a folding table outside the kitchen window. With fall around the corner, it was time to clean and oil the guns. It’s a methodical process that is satisfying to undertake on objects that are a beautiful marriage of design and utility. Using a kit made for the purpose, I rammed the cleaning rods through the barrels, oiled the working parts, and rubbed the wood stocks till they shone. I finished just as guests arrived for dinner, returning the guns to the cabinet as they walked up the drive.

Growing up in Louisiana, I, alongside my father and brother, hunted and fished year round. It was a rare week that did not find me crouching in a duck blind, running trot lines, crabbing, or catching crawfish. Game, fresh- and saltwater fish, shrimp, and oysters easily provided five dinner meals out of seven for our household. Staying up late at night cleaning and gutting fish, setting the alarm every two hours to run the trot-line, waking up at 3 a.m. to get to the duck blind or be on the open gulf by sunrise, all were part of the landscape of my childhood.

Mine was the hunting and fishing of providence, not of the trophy hunter. It was the experience of a profoundly masculine world. From the catching, shooting, and cleaning to, in many cases, the cooking, it was a culture of men putting food on the table for their families. It wasn’t needed in the middle class home of my father—he certainly could have provided all of our meat needs from the grocery store—but it was a lifestyle I shared with most of my friends growing up.

There was always an exhilaration in making a good shot or setting the hook on a large fish. It provided, and still does, a sense of accomplishment that is part evolutionary and large part tribal. The camaraderie of men in camp, the solitude of the hunt, being on the water by myself, or with my father, the rituals of killing and of eating, each shaped who I am as a person.

Perhaps it is counterintuitive, but killing another living creature can teach a person a lot about nature. Putting that act of killing in its “proper place” reminds us of where we came from and where we belong. And remembering our place in a natural order may be the best way to save this planet.

A detractor could argue against the killing, the male role in that culture, and I would listen and perhaps agree in part. But my defense is simple and straightforward: I prefer to be the one with blood on his hands. I believe it is a stance that makes me more, not less, sensitive to the value of life. It is the same reason I butcher poultry and livestock. It seems more honest.

Some may be shaking their heads right now. But as we collectively pile into our cars, while away our hours shopping, allow our kids to grow up without seeing the light of day as they game their way into perpetual adolescence, move from air-conditioned office to air-conditioned vehicle to air-conditioned home, with all that those actions entail to the planet, we might ask ourselves a hard question: who are we kidding?

Whether vegetarian or meat eater, just because we do not pull the trigger or set the hook, we are all culpable in the killing that our lifestyle requires.

Father’s Day: a Thanksgiving

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This weekend I am in Oregon for the wedding of my niece, daughter of my eldest sister, Cynthia. Here is a “Thanksgiving” post from the archives about the importance a father plays in shaping who we are today. Happy Father’s Day, dad.

It always seemed cold out on the Louisiana marsh as a boy. On Thanksgiving eve my father and I would head out to the hunting camp, a ramshackle building under centuries-old live oaks. At dinner we’d sit down at a long communal table and enjoy hearty bowls of duck gumbo. The dozen or more men would talk, and we the sons would keep quiet, seen but not heard. The morning smell of bacon and eggs served as an early alarm. And by 4:30 we were climbing into mud-boats and heading off across the marsh. At regular intervals a father and son would disembark into a wooden pirogue and push off into the darkness, usually arriving at a duck blind an hour before sunrise. Our hunt would begin with my father calling the ducks, enticing them to circle and land.

 At the end of the hunt in late morning, we’d head home, pulling into the drive around noon. Thanksgiving preparations inside were well underway, pies lined up on the counter. I’d cast an anxious gaze to determine that a favored sweet potato pie was among them, then off for a shower and a change to clean clothes. The table was set and dinner typically eaten in mid-afternoon; afterward, the calls would begin from distant relatives.

Today, as a grown man, my rituals have changed. I’m now the relative calling across the distance of a time zone and seven hundred miles. Instead of a duck hunt early Thanksgiving, my morning is filled with chores: feeding pigs, sheep, cattle and chickens, stacking wood for the woodstove. Busy, but still time will be made later for a woodland walk on our farm. We eat late, so no need to rush dinner preparations. Some years we are graced by the company of friends, and other years we dine alone. This year, Cindy travels and I will dine by myself or with a couple of friends.

I’ll prepare a roast duck in memory of those boyhood hunts with my father. And I’ll regret the absence from the table of a sweet potato pie. But since it is Thanksgiving, I’ll be grateful for reasonable health, a loving partner, a satisfying life, a full library; that my father is still with us, as is a large abundance of siblings and other kin. I’ll also be thankful for what is absent in my life, namely, the darkness of war and the dislocation from hearth and home of the refugee.

As I step out on the porch before sunrise Thanksgiving morning, the air will smell of smoke from a dozen farmhouses in our valley. It will be cold on our farm here in the hills of East Tennessee. The cattle will begin to bawl. But over their din, if I listen well, I will hear the sound of my father calling the wild ducks out on the marsh.