Pheasant Hunting

M' went hunting today.

God knows that I was not cut out to be a Pioneer woman.
In my house, there are numerous feathers, and not a little blood.
My child has enlightened me to the need to pull one of our hoses from the garage, to wash the blood from the exterior of the house.
At least he had the sense to do the butchering outside.
The fowl carcasses are being more finely chopped up at this moment.
I asked him to remove the legs, and to do something about eliminating the breast bone. Then I shall set them to soaking in something yummy, so that I can cook them tomorrow.
I don't know that my appetite will be up to the challenge. Plucking birds always gives me more intimate knowledge of a bird than is helpful for consumption. I am such a city girl.
It's true that I grew up with this sort of thing happening all the time. Clearly, the hunting gene is hereditary, and not environmental. If masculinity were environmental, both of my boys would be gay.
I'm just sayin'.
Growing up, we ate goose we'd plucked ourselves. We even slept under the comfort of the down blankets from step-dad's kills. We ate deer and elk, and bear, and a vast variety of birds. There were other things we ate, too, things I've blocked out of my concious mind. Liver and heart were not considered exotic at our table.
This is Idaho, baby.
Indeed, mother fried even the chicken fat in oil and garlic for our appetizers. That's actually true.
So is the fact that mother would disect random parts of the beasties at the dinner table for our edification. Did you know a duck's heart has 3 chambers? Have you seen the innards of a sheeps eye? I know these things first-hand. Oh, the redneck education!
Look at my life now. I want to be elegant and refined. Instead I am wresting bird wings from the dog, and washing fur off of a bloody carcass.
Who's coming over for dinner tomorrow night? I suspect there'll be plenty.