It is freezing ass cold tonight and I was driving home from a kitchen tools gig when I passed a dead deer on the onramp to the highway. I pulled over, put my flashers on and seriously considered whether I wanted to throw it into the back of my minivan. Didn't have a garbage bag on hand, so I decided against it and rushed home to my darling husband and told him to go and get it with his truck. We'll see if it is still there.
There is a slaughter house in Swansea where we can bring it to get dressed.
I grew up on a farm and it is moments like these... passing a dead deer on the road, with my first thought of venison stew with artichokes and sun dried tomatoes, that I realize that I am a farm girl, deep down in my soul.
We slaughtered things. We raised them, loved them, treated them well and then either carted them off to Swansea or just took care of it out in the lean-to of the barn. By the time I was 9 I could dispatch a chicken with little fuss. I could strip it of feathers, clean the guts and cook it, too. Same with rabbits.
My friends had farms too. Steve and Linda were Portuguese, their old man ran a nursery in Portsmouth. Once I was hanging out over there and wandered into a huge outbuilding. There was a skinned cow hanging from the ceiling by one hairy hoof. I was struck by the ridiculousness of it.
My husband didn't live on a farm as a kid. He grew up in a town, but they raised pigeons in the back yard and sold them to the local French restaurant. They had a couple of chickens too. Everyone in Vietnam did.
So, I don't know if he'll actually have the nerve to bag a whole dead deer.
I'll keep you posted.
It is now 1:06 am and I just spent the last hour coaching my husband on how to gut a deer. It's in the garage even as we speak. Skinned and hanging from that incongruously hairy foot.
A strange night in suburbia!
Venison stew with artichokes and sun dried tomatoes: It's what's for dinner.