Some props for Hank Shaw

Wild game at the table is an art, something requiring equal doses of creativity, knowledge and touch. Too much or too little of any of these will leave you hungry and headed for Mexican take-out. Most of you will agree, however, that when you get it right, wild game cannot be surpassed.

I've been a closet fan of Hank Shaw's for several years. If you  haven't heard of him, visit his Hunter Angler Gardener Cook website. He does some amazing things with wild game and does it in a way that's not the least bit intimidating to a non-professional chef. Two dishes I've enjoyed more than once are his Belgian venison medallions and poached dove with roasted peppers. The wife and kids are at the in-laws tonight which is usually an occasion to dive into the game stash uninhibited. Bad news if you're a venison backstrap but bacchanalia if you're a taste bud.

I had a few thin strips of backstrap so rather than cut them into medallions I left them whole and draped them across a scruffy pile of garlic mashed potatoes. If the presentation offends you, get over it. I did.

I'll confess that I've taken liberties from time to time with his work, substituting here and there for stuff I had at hand. Some of the items he uses may be difficult to come by depending on where you live but if you don't get too funky there's no worry. I've gained a minor education in all kinds of vegetables, salts, oils, nuts and such, things that carry over into all types of cuisine. And I've learned what's caused some of my game dishes to fail (it's not always over-cooking).

All in all it's a great place to spend some time. If you like what you see, pick up one of his books and you'll have a field day in the kitchen. Many thanks, Hank.

Steak

A friend of mine who raised cattle had a bumper sticker on his truck that said "The West wasn't won on salad".  There is a lot of good food in the world, a list as long as a check cord of things I would eat any time, anywhere.  But in a class all its own is a good cut of beef.

Earlier this week the family was out of town and I felt like firing up the grill for a party of one, chasing the heat of the day away with some brown liquor on ice and enjoying the roaring silence of a house without children.  The rapturous sensory overload of this is hard to describe and harder to understand unless you have kids and work at a job that has effectively sucked the life out of your summer.  Suffice it to say that the only disappointment in three of my most guilty pleasures converging at once was knowing that it wouldn't last forever.

Some like their steak marinated or coated with seasoning, which is an abomination.  If the cut is good it will hold flavor that shouldn't be altered more than a shake of salt and pepper, and then only once it's on the plate.  And rare is the only way it should be cooked.  A three quarter pound piece used to disappear quickly, but old age and the anchor of a slower metabolism have left me with a nagging sense of restraint.  Staring at the half I hadn't eaten, devil on one shoulder and angel on the other, I thought about what it might taste like on a sandwich for lunch the next day.

Still basking in the good fortune of a night at home alone and a dinner as scarce, I felt suddenly benevolent.  As I cut the steak into smaller bites I knew they wouldn't savor it like I did, not with taste buds at least.  I've been told they enjoy food more with their noses and given how quickly they make it disappear I'm inclined to agree.  Briefly I thought of photographing this canine delight but decided it would ruin the mood.

When the plate was empty I knew they were happier.  I was too.

Why technology isn't always a good thing

Deer hunting is not my favorite thing to do out-of-doors.  Knowing that a decent sized doe will nearly pack my available freezer space and last well into the new year, I do it as much for sustenance as enjoyment.  If I manage to bag one on my first hunt of the season it might end up being the last hunt of the season; I just don't have much interest after that. Then I have years like 2010 when I get pretty mad at it and go half a dozen times or more, miss the one deer I shoot at (I still can't believe I whiffed it), and don't put a thing in the freezer.

I hunted a couple of times early this season and didn't shoot.  Again, not being a fanatic about it I don't actively seek opportunities to sit in a stand, don't drive long distances to do so, and don't get too upset if it doesn't happen.  I'd just about put the season behind me when I was invited to skip out of work last Wednesday afternoon and figured why not, it's a pretty day and I could sure use some fresh air.  About five minutes before sunset a nice big doe walked into the food plot and by the end of the week she'll be in my freezer.

But the story doesn't quite end there.  The deer made it about twenty yards into some of the thickest, nastiest brush in the county before expiring and took a while to extract.  Being the incredibly responsible spouse that I am, about halfway through the process I snapped a picture of the deer and sent it along with a text to my wife telling her that I might be a little late getting home.  Later that night I walked by the computer and saw a photo of a deer that looked eerily familiar.  On Facebook.  With my name under it.  Thanks honey.

I'm pretty sure she still doesn't understand why I'd rather not be seen advertising the trophy doe that I shot.  I tried explaining that around here, crowing about shooting a doe is like bragging that you got a hole in one at putt-putt.  Sure, you give yourself a little pat on the back when you do it, you enjoy the spoils at the table for the next six months, but there's really no need to alert the media.  Especially the social media.

The picture was only online a few hours but the damage was done.  Since last Thursday I've had a dozen guys with a smirk on their faces congratulate me on my deer.

Shameless link to a fine piece of work

I'm a little behind on both posting and reading, at least in terms of where I'd like to be this time of year.  Sitting down tonight to play some catch up I stumbled across this post by Hank Shaw over at Hunter, Angler, Gardener, Cook:

http://honest-food.net/2011/12/07/on-killing/

It's a subject all of us deal with on some level and he's done a fine job of getting to the core of it.  

Got that kitchen groove back

It's a tragedy when you take eating for granted.  Not on a Shakespearean level, mind you, but something to be mourned nonetheless and avoided if possible.  The one thing you have to do to survive is eat, so you might as well make the most of it.  Yeah you have to breathe, too, but there's only so much latitude in that and try as you might you'll never reach the delights found in eating.

I used to cook with fervor.  I looked forward to nights when I could spend several hours at the stove caramelizing, sautéing, searing, seasoning and tasting.  When the house is empty cooking can be a pleasure again.  There's no one to say "Ewww!" or whine "I don't waaaant it", no reason to rush the process to get a little whiner to bed on time.  It's also a good time to purge the freezer of less popular contents.  Yesterday I got a late start and vowed that I'd make do with whatever was in the house, opting to sip bourbon instead of trudging to the store.  Potluck marinade handles the underdog role well.  Dove breast fired in a cast iron pan takes a back seat to nothing.

These found their way on top of mashed potatoes that I'll sheepishly admit my wife found the recipe for in a Martha Stewart magazine.  But hey, fair's fair and good's good regardless of the origin and this dish, absent the customary milk or cream and infused with a heavy dose of olive oil and garlic yields the best mashed potatoes I've ever piled on a fork.  Of course I found I was out of garlic after the potatoes were boiling so I substituted a lonely shallot and some garlic powder and drifted in some cumin out of curiosity.  Jackpot.

You've had those meals.  Everyone's had those meals, the ones where the palate and the mind dance like the Peanuts gang, jubilant and uninhibited.  They occupy thoughts to the point that there's no room left for troubles and all seems right with the world.  Or maybe that's the whiskey at work.

And it was so good I forgot to take pictures.