The second half of December I spent in the company of my mother in London, Edinburgh, and the lovely Highland town of Aberfeldy. We made a thorough investigation of real ales, old pubs, and the joys of the BBC. We spent hours on hikes through the Birks of Aberfeldy and through the museums of Edinburgh and London.
Anyways, I now find myself on the Black Isle, just west of Inverness in the Scottish Highlands. I'm working on a family farm that includes a furniture restoration business, an organic brewery, and lots of animals. My jobs have included milking the cow and feeding the chickens, among other less pastoral tasks like moving earth, cleaning up after said animals, and the ubiquitous WWOOFer task of stacking wood.
My most interesting set of experiences in the last two weeks, however, involve a newfound intimacy with the pheasant. In the past two weeks, I have participated in a pheasant shoot, plucked and gutted a number of pheasants, and eaten roast pheasant a few times. This might be called the first time I have been intimately involved with my animal protein, and for friends who still stare when I order a burger this may come as a shock.
The first weekend I was here, I was invited to join two lovely humans and two lovely dogs to a pheasant shoot on the property of a friend. Never one to turn down a cultural experience, I donned all of my layers, including my new very handy Wellington boots, and squished into the truck for the short, early-morning drive across the firth. We were met there by some equally bundled and wellington-ed people and equally eager dogs. In all the we about twenty people and almost as many dogs. I was told this was a relatively relaxed shoot, and my job was to get into formation with some other walkers and dogs and to scare pheasants out of the brush to then be shot by waiting "guns." We were given instructions before each "drive," and then we waited for the horn to sound the beginning of the drive. We "beaters" would then walk forward in lines, clapping, whistling, and urging the dogs on with cries to "go get 'em." When a pheasant took flight, we would shout to alert the guns which direction it was going, and they would shoot it down. The "gun dogs" would then go retrieve the bird, and it would go into a netted bag to later be strung up in a brace to hang up and age. After about five hours of this, we retired to a shed for some hot soup and cold ham sandwiches. I only fully defrosted my toes after climbing into my electric blanketed bed back in the farmhouse.
Fast forward to a few days ago, when the pheasants that had been hanging up were deemed properly aged (along with the goose from a different outing) and we were to have roast goose and pheasants for dinner. We donned latex gloves, and plucked. After the bird was sufficiently denuded, we chopped off its head, feet, and wingtips and proceeded into the (warm!) kitchen to finish the job. We laid each bird on its back and expanded the existing hole between the legs to one that would welcome a groping hand. We then pulled out the insides, discarding the (ahem) digestive system and setting aside the liver, heart, and lungs for stuffing (that might have been a once in a lifetime taste...). After a thorough rinse inside and out, our bride were ready for roasting. After it was all said and done, I have to say that the whole process was less gross than expected. When you buy a chicken or a turkey from a grocery store, it's already naked, and those bits deemed useful are in a soggy bag in the cavity (often to land forgotten in the freezer, it seems). Somehow, picking up that naked, clammy bird and sticking your hand in that already-emptied body still seems more daunting. I haven't quite figured out why this is true for me. What's more, I'm not sure it will still hold true when the bird I am plucking and gutting is one I've raised from a chick and fed every day. I've yet to actually kill my own food, but perhaps that, too, will come before this adventure ends. I've come a long way from veggie burgers in less than three years!
Next week: a bus and ferry trip to Ireland, where I'll be working on two small family farms in Cork and Kerry until mid-March.
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Location:Allangrange, Black Isle, Scotland
Memories of pheasant hunting and eating were re-awakened - thanks Em! There are pheasants at the farm ready for your return. Stew perhaps?
ReplyDeleteTake care!