We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
At the last minute (today), decided to do a little supper for 20 next weekend, and I have decided to do something simple and American with the pheasants: Pheasant smothered in sour cream. Talk about old-fashioned comfort food - a casserole. (This is a famous old "guy cookin'" recipe for Ruffed Grouse.) I'll quarter the peasants, not halve them like grouse.
I like to serve recipes like this on the wide (1") Italian noodles.
Yes, I have some Beach Plum Jelly in the pantry. What old Cape Codder would not? Plus I now grow them myself. The worse the soil, the better the plums.
I was considering a duck salad like this as the first course. One wild duck breast per serving, with the breast cooked rare and sliced thin.
I remember my pheasant hunting days in Stste College,Pa with great fondness. My father and I would go out with a few others and have a nice walk. But one morning in particular I'll never forget.
We lived on South Garner Street, then on the outskirts of town. Behind our house was a twenty acres field that a gentleman farmer grew corn in every other year and beyond that forrest with an unabstucted view of Mt. Nittany at a distance of about 15-20 miles. It was beautiful.
One late Fall morning my father rousted me from a Saturday morning slumber to "come see this"
We ascended the staircase to the upper floor for the best view and there on the snow dusted field we counted over thirty pheasant cocks within thirty yards of the house. It was a neat site.
It was illegal to hunt within the borough limits but the borough ended about 100 yards into the field. My father wanted me to walk the birds toward the borough boundary where he would be waiting in ambuse. I convinced him to just make it a visual Kodak memory and let them feed in peace. He reluctantly agreed and went to the kitchen to fix the dove he had shot the day before.
To me that wouldn't have been hunting, just killing since we were both very good shots. It however didn't diminish my love for a good hunt. It was a sight I've never seen again but the brain Kodak is as vivd as yesterday.