third pheasant of the season

Here's a quick culinary adventure story for your literary delectation.
But maybe not right before lunch!

Yesterday when I was on my way to therapy, just before the last turn, I
encountered -- what shall we call it -- the corpse a large male
pheasant, nearly intact in the middle of a busy road. Pronounced dead
at the scene whilst more or less still intact is my usual criterion for
taking these things home, for strict hygiene reasons. And dining on
roadkill is itself a highly economical way to maintain a connection to
my rustic origins, in the style of Waushara county resident Francis
Hamerstrom.

The previous two birds I collected this year were females, a bit smaller
but in better condition. I let them "faisander" (i.e. hang around for a
while, in the lingo of the backwater gourmand) before cleaning them up.
Yesterday's cock pheasant had been hit harder, as I realised when I
returned to my roadside cache and noticed that the liver and a few other
bits and bobs had been put through its back. I tied it on my bicycle
rack with a few flexible willow whips, and brought it home, where I
immediately started to take it apart, and realised that it was in fact
still warm. One does not always think about the warm-bloodedness of
birds.

There's a useful video on YouTube about how to do these preparations,
which are mildly disgusting, but still I think worth knowing about. In
the end, I quartered it and broiled it, and ate the legs with peas,
sauteed mushrooms, and black pepper potato chips, while watching the
second half of "The Holy Mountain" by Alejandro Jodorowsky.

There is a moral to the story, which is to be careful when you're out
there on the road!