October 4, 2010
I was off the grid for a day or four and oh my word, I'm completely happy to be back. As nice as it was to be away for a while, I appreciate water that runs clear, and carbon monoxide detectors that don't go off in the middle of the night, and poultry that comes from the store--you know, as opposed to the kind that's still covered in feathers when it hits the counter.
That's right, my husband shot a grouse--it's kind of like a wild chicken who hangs around in the wilderness.
I bet your mouth is watering.
[I wish I could post a picture right here, but Google says I'm over capacity so you'll have to use your imaginations. Count your blessings, guys.]
See, my husband likes to think he's a hunter. Not for anything big like deer or moose, but for little animals like birds and hamsters and whatnot--you know, the teeny ones that lack the brain capacity think their way out of a life threatening situation. The ones that run under your tires and smack into the grill of your Lincoln Town Car on purpose--those are his prey of choice.
But there's a catch. Up until last weekend, Jared hadn't technically shot any of these little defenseless birds or butterflies, he only talked about it constantly. And dreamed about it. And made me go look at hunting dogs.
This weekend however, Jared's life took a sharp change of direction when he finally lost his grouse virginity.
I don't know the details of how it all went down, and I'll go to my grave not needing to know. All I saw was a limp feathery bird, a chicken breast looking thing slide out of that bird without so much as a knife, and the chicken breast looking thing get tossed into a pan of hot butter.
Barf, barf, and barf again.
Before Jared actually shot a bird, I totally thought I'd be able to eat a grouse. I now stand officially corrected. Turns out I can get a raging case of the runs at the mere thought of a dead wild chicken thing....that about sums it up.
After Jared sauteed his grouse in butter, I could tell he was getting nervous about actually ingesting the bird. He held a piece up on his fork, tentatively put it up to his lips, took the littlest nibble your mind can fathom (watch the first three seconds of this for the full effect), channeled his inner Tony the Tiger, and over-triumphantly declared, "THIS IS GRRRRRREAT!"
Then he took approximately four-million more nibbles until he cleaned his plate like a good little hunter.
In all seriousness, I'm super proud of Jared. And since I just put it in writing, I don't think I ever need to eat a grouse to prove it.