He was already dead, and we Schrutes use every part of the goose

I’ve learned to live with a lot of quirky stuff since moving to a small town. For example, the radio station’s morning weather report consists of phone calls from residents who go outside and look at the thermometers on their porches. It’s not unusual to see bloody deer, bobcat, or other furry animal carcasses in the backs of trucks. I’ve eaten bear meat on more than one occasion.

I’m telling you this so you won’t think it’s weird that Dave and I spent Sunday evening trying to figure out how the hell to cook a pheasant that had only been dead for an hour.

“Make sure you remove the buckshot before you eat it!” was the only advice we received from our generous hunter friend.

Some people prepare their meat by resting it in a nice marinade; our prep work consists of rooting around the flesh for bullets while making Dick Cheney jokes.

Neither of us had ever cooked pheasant before, so we searched “pheasant” on MarthaStewart.com. This lady can come up with 40 variations of s’mores, but when it comes to pheasant, she only has three options? Serious wtf. One of them involved roasted chestnuts, which I considered for zero seconds because a) there’s no way our local grocery store would carry them, and b)  I don’t live in a fucking Norman Rockwell painting. Dave finally found a recipe in one of his old cookbooks for “Autumn Roasted Pheasant” that uses Worcestershire sauce, honey, apple and onions, among other things. We plan to make it tonight … if it’s good, I’ll post photos and the recipe tomorrow. If it’s not, I blame Martha Stewart.


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