Secrets of Preparing Dark-Meated Gamebirds

Seared Sharptail breast, steamed broccoli, and corn spoonbread.

I love hunting prairie birds in the early fall.  Chasing sharptails and prairie chickens for me and my buddies has become more than a way to pass the time until the pheasant and quail season start up -- it's a focal point of our fall campaign.

Fortunately, we usually have a freezer full of these dark meat birds at the end of the season.  I savor this exotic-tasting bird done just about any way, but like many folks, Mrs. Scampwalker isn't too hot on dark meat from wild birds.  But I've got a foolproof recipe that'll satisfy the most finicky of palates.

When I clean and package the birds, I fillet the breast into two medallions. I freeze the thighs, legs, and bones for a later date when I can combine them with other prairie bird hindquarters and simmer them into a rich stock for a gumbo.

With the breasts, I soak them in a simple marinade of 1 part soy sauce, two parts olive oil, a dash of Worcestershire sauce, a couple of crushed garlic cloves, a tablespoon of coarsely crushed dried rosemary, and black pepper to taste.

I turn up my Weber full blast until it's good and hot, and I sear the breasts -- a minute or less on each side -- until cooked medium rare.  After turning the meat, I baste the birds with a bit of Chatellier's Rare Game Sauce.

Chatellier's is hard to describe -- a unique mix of savory, sweet, and tangy.  But it does what all good sauces should do -- it enhances the taste of the meat instead of hiding it.  And it's equally good paired with venison, goose, woodcock, or red domestic meats as well.  It deserves a spot in every hunter's fridge.

Note: I received my jar of Chatellier's for free from the company.  But it's still darn good and I plan restock more once my freebie is gone -- which is soon.

Closing Out Kill It, Catch It, Cultivate It Week

Lest you think I'm a quitter, the Kill It, Catch It, Cultivate It Week went swimmingly... I just got worn out from documenting things (any blogger gets this).

Anyhow, from one Saturday through the next Sunday, we succeeded.  I ate a ton of venison salami sandwiches for lunch, some homegrown canteloupe for breakfast, and a ton of tasty stuff for dinner.  I failed a couple times -- a work lunch necessitated some Chinese food, and a visit to see the Kansas City T-Bones meant hot dogs from God knows where.

Here are a few of the dishes we had... the photographer (me) got lazy as we moved on.

First was homemade pasta (above) with melted brie, 'maters, basil, and garlic.  A staple of summer, I pine for this.  And like me, my bro, and my dad, I made this with my kids.  It's a tradition... one I hope they pass on to their kiddoes.  We have a pasta machine, but I tend to like it cut wide and rustica with a simple pizza cutter.

We also had corned venison, thanks to Hank Shaw's absolutely terrific corned venison recipe.  If y'all have a tough old roast of a forgotten critter, this is the recipe you need to do.  With homegrown fried okra.  The corn is local, but not not mine.  We grew some, but it tasted like paste on a stalk.

There was Mexican night of course, with jalapeno cheddar grilled sausage in homemade tortillas.  We made some frijoles, which were not from 'round these parts, but damn tasty nonetheless.  And they WERE from Lubbock, Mrs. Scampwalker's hometown, so it still seemed appropriate.  Avacado?  Yeah, ya busted me.

The piece de resistance was Hungarian partridge, Andalusian style.  My love of Spanish food is well documented, and this mixture of roasted onions, sweet raisins, and tart vinegar was spot-on.  Paired with saffron rice and a tomato and olive salad, I almost felt like I was back in Iberia.

So I'm calling it a success.  Was it tough?  Not really.  That's the way the Scampwalkers roll -- we don't typically eat shit from a box, bag, or can.  Was it pure?  Not entirely.  Until Kansas is hospitable to olives, avacadoes, and (decent) red wine, then I'm still going to seek foodstuffs elsewhere.  Was I completely satisfied?  Yes and no.  Loved the bounty and satisfaction of what I worked to eat.  But I'll never get over a craving for a good marbled feedlot-raised beefsteak, and I don't intend to build a gristmill for my own flour.  And Mrs. S. says a whiskey still ain't happening.

But it beats hamburger helper and Bud Light anyday, Clark.

KCCE Week, Day 3: Trout a la Papa

Day Three of Kill It, Catch It, Cultivate It, Eat It Week featured the fruits of our most recent trip.  Last week, we met Mrs. Scampwalker's dad and his wife in South Fork, Colorado, along with the cousins.  It was a great time, and part of the fun included some trout fishing in mountain lakes.  The action wasn't furious -- it was pretty warm and we surmised the trout were deep -- but it was still productive.

We wound up with a decent sized school of rainbow, cutthroat, and brown trout, and the recipe we used came straight from my father in law, known as Papa by the kids.  Here's Trout a la Papa:

Splay out cleaned trout onto an oiled rack of the Big Chief smoker, and let it smoke (I use apple wood chips) for one pan (about 45 minutes or so).  While they're smoking, melt 3-4 tablespoons of butter in a large, ovenproof pan.  Saute a clove or two of garlic until soft, add enough white wine to cover the bottom of the pan, and juice from half a lemon.  When the trout are done smoking, remove the skin and discard.  Gently place the trout in the pan and roast in a 325 degree oven for 15 or 20 minutes.  Serve whole and spoon wine and butter sauce over the top.

The trout were accompanied by the Homesick Texan's phenomenal Tex-Mex squash casserole -- Jack loathes squash, and even he likes this.  A couple of homegrown tomatoes with feta cheese and balsamic vinegar rounded out the meal.

For breakfast, it was canteloupe from the garden, and leftover grilled pizza, and a Missouri peach for a mid-afternoon snack.

So far, so good!

Kill It, Catch It, Cultivate It, Eat It Week: Day 2

Tuesday featured that American culinary classic, the BLT.  Ours was made with home-cured, applewood-smoked bacon (the pork provided by the local Bichelmeyer Meats), homegrown 'maters, and freshly-baked bread.

Breakfast was a bowl of homegrown canteloupe and lunch brought a venison salami sandwich and a homemade dill pickle.

**note: no bird dogs were harmed during the making of this sandwich.

It's Kill It, Catch It, Cultivate It, Eat It Week... Day 1

We're going to try something different here at Casa Scampwalker this week.  We love to hunt, fish, garden, and eat the bounty.  This week, we're going to try to do it exclusively.  Here are the three simple rules:

1. Eat food that we've shot, caught, or grown -- three meals a day for a week.
2. If using food/ingredients that do not fall under rule #1, eat foods produced locally/regionally.
3. If using food/ingredients that do not fall under rules #1 or #2, they should be as close to their raw, unprocessed state as possible.

Why do such a thing?  We're not on some health kick -- we've always tried to stay away from unprocessed, pre-produced foods.  That's not only because we think it's a healthier way to live, but also because we really enjoy cooking.  We're certainly not making some statement against Big Farm agriculture or anything -- we realize that's a necessary part of the American food chain (not to mention the economy here in the Midwest).  We're just sort of curious if it can be done.  And plus, I've got to make some room in the deep freeze for some new critters!

Tonight's menu (decidedly and uncharacteristically vegetarian):

• Grilled pizzas with fresh mozzarella and homegrown garden vegetables (sauteed eggplant, carmelized onion, cherry tomatoes, and fresh basil.
• Garden fresh gazpacho, using Jose Andres' spectacular recipe.
• For dessert, the beautiful Mrs. S. baked a bing cherry pie.  Not local, but from fresh cherries and a homemade crust. 

Pretty terriffic, if I do say so myself.

Folks, until you get to read about what I shoot, you get to learn about what I cook.  Such is life in August in the Midwest. 

That is all.

James Beard's Scorpion Jalapeno Relish

It's summer, it's beastly hot, and finally - finally - the tomato plants have started bearing fruit.  Like lots.  Earlier this morning, my countertop was literally covered with them -- celebrities, early girls, lemon boys, cherokee purples, and jet stars.  They're all wonderful fresh, but we knew there was no way we'd be able to eat them all before they went bad.

What to do?  Go to the Scampwalker family archives and can some scorpion jalapeno relish, created by the legendary James Beard.  And this cooked relish/salsa befits the great chef, back before chefs were celebrities.

Some 30 years ago, I remember my own dad toiling away in the kitchen, chopping tomatoes, peppers, and onions by the potful.  I was only passively interested in its creation (much like my own kids this very day).  But when it was done?  No finer concoction has ever adorned a tortilla chip. 

Back when I was a kid, I can remember popping a jar open during a Cornhusker football game on a snowy Saturday afternoon, and nothing brought back memories of a distant summer more vividly.  I recall eating it on the back of a tailgate for lunch on a pheasant hunting trip.  And I fondly remember fishing trips on Nebraska's Merritt Reservoir where my dad, my brother, and I -- along with our guide turned close friend -- ate scorpion and tortilla chips and drank gin and tonics (the aptly-dubbed "champagne cruise") while routinely reeling in six-pound walleye.  This salsa is memories.

And despite it's menacing name, it's not particularly hot.  It's sweet, with a nice acidic tang, and a mild kick.  The recipe, below, was given to me by my dad.  I can't seem to find any history on it, nor the cookbook it came from anywhere on the internet (a rarity these days).  My adaptation is below.

5 pounds ripe tomatoes
2 medium onions
1 cup sliced jalapenos, most seeds and veins removed
2 bell peppers
2-3 coarsely chopped garlic cloves
1 cup apple cider vinegar
1/2 cup sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon chile powder
1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper

Coarsely chop the tomatoes and onions, and cook in a large pot over medium heat for about 10 minutes.  Then add the rest of the ingredients, and cook until the peppers and onions are softened a bit, but not mush.  Don't cover the pot -- you want some of the liquid to cook off.

You can eat it fresh at this point, or if you want to can it, use standard waterbath canning techniques, using pint jars with about a quarter inch headspace, and simmer for 15 minutes.

It was my first attempt at waterbath canning, and so far, so good -- the seals are all tight and I can look forward to the taste of summer all year long.  Thanks, Pop.

Easter at the Scampwalker's

'Twas a nice and leisurely Easter Sunday at Casa Scampwalker.  After Sunday services, Mrs. S and I whipped up a couple of brandy milk punches.  It's an old family tradition of mine, and one I can remember my parents savoring many years ago when I was my son's age.  The ingredients sound a bit odd, but they almost taste like a melted milkshake.  A decidedly grown-up one.

The centerpiece of our Easter meal was a ham that I prepared from scratch.  I bought a 14-pound fresh ham from Bichelmeyer Meats, and, using the recipe in Michael Ruhlman's Charcuterie,  brined it in a cooler for about six days.  It wasn't a fancy brine -- just kosher salt, brown sugar, and some pink salt.  I smoked it up on Friday (about 7 hours total, until the internal temp hit 155 degrees).  It was delicious!  I always thought a ham required a lot more knowledge, skill, and equipment than the average home cook could muster, but I can gladly report that we'll be doing this again -- just as soon as we eat the other 13 pounds of this one.

The ham was accompanied by a terrific blue cheese and chipotle scalloped potato recipe taken from Homesick Texan, and some gently steamed asparagus drizzled with some lemon juice.  It was all paired with a 2009 Becker Prairie Rotie, a really tasty Rhone-style blend that complemented the flavors of the meal.  And a fresh strawberry pie for dessert.

After a prodigious nap on the couch, we engaged in another Scampwalker ritual: cascarones.  A south Texas and Mexican custom, a cascarone is a dyed eggshell filled with confetti.  A spirited battle at a nearby park ensued, and the Scampwalker tradition of "It Ain't Easter Until Someone Cries or Bleeds" was fulfilled.

My Love Affair With Refried Beans

Growing up in the Midwest refried beans were typically only served as a side dish to tacos -- a can of Old El Paso, that mom would thin with some water.  An afterthought, really.  To me they always smelled (and looked) like canned dog food, but I enjoyed them anyway.

Fast forward to my college years in San Antonio.  A Taco Cabana was always nearby, and the cheapest thing on the menu was the bean and cheese taco.  Swaddled in foil and served steaming hot, it was peasant food, but hey, that was me!  Just a homemade tortilla, smoky, rich refried beans, and some shredded cheese.  It was heaven, and I lived on the things.

As toddlers, our kids lived on them too.  It was (and still is) the Scampwalker family equivalent to the peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  They are equally tasty morning, noon, or night.  Now our frijoles refritos are homemade, and I can happily report that they no longer smell like Alpo.

Scampwalker's Refried Beans

Roast 3-4 garic cloves, wrapped in foil, in a 350 degree oven for 20-30 minutes.

Meanwhile, sort a 16-ounce bag of pinto beans (black beans also work well) for any pebbles or other debris, put into a large pot with 8 cups of water, and add 3 bay leaves.  Do not add salt now -- your beans will never get fully tender if you do.

Cover and simmer for about 3 hours,  adding the peeled garlic when it's done roasting.  Check the beans occasionally, and if they're still tough, add water as needed.  You'll know they're done when they are tender and start sticking to the bottom of the pot and almost all the water is absorbed.  Remove from heat.

Add a fresh chopped tomato if in season, or a half can of tomato paste.  If you save bacon grease (and everyone should), add 2-3 tablespoons of it.  Otherwise add 2-3 tablespoons of vegetable oil.  You can also add salt at this time, although I typically don't if I'm using bacon grease.

Mash them with a potato masher.  I prefer mine still a bit chunky, but if you want them really creamy, you can finish them off with a hand mixer.

Serve them with homemade tortillas, shredded cheddar cheese, cilantro, and pico de gallo.  I suppose the beans will save for a week or more in the refrigerator, but they're never around long enough to know for sure.

"I Have A New Level Of Respect For Christopher Boykin."

That sentence was uttered last night by my ten-year-old son Jack.  Who is Chris Boykin?  Why, he's the Guinness Record Book holder who peeled and ate three bananas in less than one minute.

My son knows that because he read it in a book he checked out from the library over the weekend.  It was a record he thought he could beat.  The Guinness guys stipulate that to become a valid world record, he needed two witnesses and videotape.  The result is below, and is not to be missed.

Tips From The Road: Freezing Game

The Kansas upland season is just starting, as it is in much of the U.S. of A.  And with any luck at all, we'll all be coming home with a few birds for the freezer.  With that in mind, I thought I'd share my method for storing birds for later use.

I was under the impression that everyone did it my way, but I've encountered plenty of serious bird hunters (and fine cooks) who simply toss their harvest in a ziploc bag and drop it in the dark recesses of the deep freeze.  That's a sure invitation for freezer burn, which dries out any exposed surface area of the meat and generally makes your hard-earned birds taste like freezer plastic.

Instead, take ten extra seconds and fill that bag with just enough water to cover the contents before you freeze it.  The water protects the meat almost indefinitely.  I recently thawed and ate a package of quail from the 2008 season that had managed to hide itself deep within the deep freeze -- with no deleterious effects.  The method does take up a bit more room, but it also encourages you to clean things out for the next season.

Just make sure you label your packages -- nothing's a bigger bummer than looking forward to a meal of Hungarian partridge and realizing you've just thawed a package of woodcock.

Pimientos de Padrón

Part of the fun of having a garden is growing stuff you don't normally find at the grocery store.  And that certainly extends to Pimientos de Padrón.  Never heard of 'em?  Neither had I, before traveling to Spain.  They can be found in many tapas bars along the winding cobblestone streets of Barcelona, and they're worth seeking out.

They range anywhere from an inch to two inches long, and almost all of them are sweet and not at all similar to the jalapenos that most Americans know.  Folklore has it that one in ten peppers are truly hot, but I think it has more to do with the size of the pepper -- we let our first batch grow too large and some of them were downright face-melting meteoric, and my family doesn't fear a little heat.

Most satisfying is that we grew these peppers ourselves, from seed no less -- provided to me by the inimitable NotHemingway, no slouch when it comes to good Spanish grub.  It was touch-and-go for awhile... out of sixteen seeds, about eight germinated into spindly, sad-looking sprouts.  Of those, only two survived and are bearing fruit.  But they're prolific enough that we expect at least a few more servings of these spicy treats.

Preparation is simple... fry them in a liberal amount of olive oil until their skins just start to wrinkle, sprinkle them with sea salt, and enjoy.  Enjoyed with a glass or two of Manzanilla sherry, manchego cheese, some garden-fresh gazpacho, and a basil tortilla española -- we were transported to the ancient Plaça Sant Josep Oriol.

Scampwalker's Blowtorch Rellenos With Venison Gravy

I can't claim credit for any component of this recipe, but I can claim that the amalgam is all my own.

The typical stuffing pepper (literally chile relleno in Spanish) is an anaheim or poblano -- the latter (and my favorite) is similar in size to an elongated green pepper, though a much deeper green in color.  The trouble with these two varieties is that they've got tough skins -- tough enough that if you cook them without removing the skin, you get something similar to Saran Wrap encasing your peppers.  Most relleno recipes tell you to broil your peppers to sear off the skin, but I've learned the hard way that this process softens the pepper too much -- not good when you get around to frying them.

Enter the "blowtorch" portion of this recipe.  It has nothing to do with the heat of the pepper -- poblanos generally are mild, if prepped correctly.  Instead, the fire portion of the equation was pioneered by my father some 30 years ago... and it's as effective as it is just plain bad-ass.  And the kids love it.  Fire up that propane torch you've got laying around to burn the skin until it blackens and pops.  Then put the whole peppers in a paper bag for 20 minutes or so to help the skin separate from the flesh of the pepper.  Rinse off the charred skin under cold water and you're ready to go.

I'm not saying my Dad invented this blowtorch process -- you can find internet references to it these days -- but then, who was surfing the web back during the Reagan administration?

The process after that is fairly straightforward:

• Cut a slit lengthwise in each pepper, and carefully scoop out the seeds and white veins (this is where the hotness is)
• Stuff either cubed or shredded cheese in each pepper -- we used sharp cheddar this time, but a Mexican asadero is nice too
• Separate a half dozen eggs; in one bowl, beat the whites until they're stiff.  In a second bowl, mix the yolks with 1/4 cup flour, then fold that mixture into the egg whites
• Roll each stuffed pepper in a plate of dry flour, and then dip into the egg mixture, making sure the batter adheres to the pepper
• Fry it with the slit-side down side first in a cast iron skillet filled with an inch of hot oil.  Turn it when golden brown, and remove when finished

That's pretty much it.  Never being one that's content with "pretty much" though, I chose to put together a chili gravy to accompany the rellenos.  There's a terrific recipe over at the Homesick Texan, who took it from Tex-Mex authority Robb Walsh:

• Heat the 1/4 cup canola oil in a skillet over medium-high heat.
• Stir in the 1/4 cup flour and stir for 3 to 4 minutes, or until it makes a light brown roux
• Add 1/2 tsp black pepper, 1 tsp salt, 1.5 tsp garlic powder, 2 tsp cumin, 1/2 tsp oregano, and 2 tbs chili powder to the roux and constantly stir for a minute or so
• Gradually pour in two cups of chicken broth, and let simmer for 15 minutes

I gilded the lily a bit more by browning a package or two of ground venison in a separate skillet along with some chopped fresh garlic, jalapenos, and tomatoes.  After everything was cooked through, I combined the meat with the chili gravy, and poured that over the relleno.  Heaven.

As we sat there last night eating, we derived an added measure of satisfaction knowing that almost everything on our plates -- from every vegetable to the eggs to the venison -- were naturally raised and harvested.  And really, really tasty.

The Holy Trinity of Smoke

Barbeque makes old ones feel young

Barbeque makes everybody someone

If you're feelin' puny and you don't know what to do

Treat yourself to some meat - eat some barbeque

-Robert Earl Keen

Like millions of Americans over this past Memorial Day Weekend, I participated in the ritual of the barbeque. For many (mostly panty-waisted easterners), "having a barbeque" means grilling hamburgers, hot dogs, or some other form of meat. Not so in Kansas City. Here, it means honest-to-God smoked meat, cooked low-and-slow over a wood fire.

For my entire life, I've used a Little Chief smoker for jerky, salmon, and chickens, but it wasn't until I moved to KC that I began dabbling in what I call the Holy Trinity of smoked meat -- ribs, pulled pork, and brisket. Ribs are probably the easiest to master -- rub 'em down with assorted spices, fire up the smoker, and pull 'em off when the meat is tender but not yet falling off the bone.

Pulled pork -- a pork butt -- was a bit of a challenge, at least until I purchased a remote digital thermometer that allowed me to measure doneness by temperature and not time. Time, I've learned, is a bad way to measure BBQ, since there are so many variables in the equation -- smoker temperature, ambient temperature, and the actual cut of meat, to name a few.

Even with a thermometer though, beef brisket remained my bugaboo -- until last weekend. I had tried many different recipes, and every single one of them produced a piece of meat that was either tough or dry -- or many times both. I used an adapted version of Meathead's Barbeque Beef Brisket Texas Style, and the results were terrific.

The leftovers ain't bad, either. Sliced beef sandwiches, chopped brisket with scrambled with eggs, or minced in homemade flour tortillas with cilantro and onion (today's lunch) are all great ways to make this meat sing.

Scampwalker's Wild Game Throwdown, Redux 1

The food has been consumed, the wine (and beer and scotch and bourbon) have been finished off, and I've finally, fully, recovered from last Saturday night's First Annual Wild Game Throwdown.

I hope my four esteemed guests had as much fun eating the grub as I did preparing it.  Over the next week or so, I'm going to post a few recipes from the shindig.  Please give them a try, and let me know what you think.

The piece de resistance (in my opinion, anyway) was Axis venison au poivre.  As legend has it, Axis was a type of deer that was originally imported to Texas from the Indian subcontinent by cattlebarons, who were sick and tired of ranch hands poaching beef cattle for an impromptu ribeye.  Now, it runs wild (and yes, under high-fence) as an exotic across the Texas plains.  It is essentially a fat free meat --leaner than chicken breast -- yet inexplicably tastes similar to beefsteak.  Like most any venison, it's best served rare or medium rare, and the recipe I used works just as well on whitetail backstrap.

I adapted this recipe from Alton Brown, the quirky yet astute Food Network chef.  He uses beef tenderloin, but I used centimeter-thick backstrap fillets, and it was every bit as good, if not better, than the domestic version.  Here's the adapted recipe:

Ingredients:

• 1-2 lbs venison backstrap
• coarsely ground pepper
• Kosher salt
• 1 tbs unsalted butter
• 1tsp olive oil
• 1/3 cup cognac
• 2/3 cup heavy cream

Pull the steaks from the fridge for an hour before you cook them.  Rub the meat with the pepper and salt... I use 2-3 parts pepper for 1 part salt.  Don't overdo it, but amply crust it.

Heat a thick-bottomed skillet to medium, then melt the butter and olive oil.  Once the butter is melted, toss on the steaks.  Flip them after 30 seconds (for rare) to a minute (for medium rare) -- any longer than that and you might as well be frying shoe leather.  Move the steaks to a plate and cover with foil.

Pull the skillet off heat, and pour in the cognac, and light with one of those long fireplace lighters (you can use a match at your own peril).  Once the flames die (yes, alcohol burns, kids!), swirl in the cream, and slowly heat it until it thickens (usually just 2-3 minutes).  Pour the sauce over the meat and prepare for unmitigated awesomeness.

Scampwalker's Wild Game Throwdown

For weeks now, I've wanted to write an end-of-season retrospective to my 2009-2010 hunting exploits, but for one reason or another, I haven't had the inspiration. Maybe it's the time of year -- cold, dark weather and a barren landscape, with the hunting season and football season behind us and college basketball still waiting to really heat up.

So instead of writing a coda to the hunting season, I'm going to cook one. This Saturday night, I've invited over a few hunting buddies to share in the bounty of the season that was. It'll be sans womenfolk and children (our subject matter can get somewhat coarse after a beverage or two) and we'll talk about what hunters universally talk about: memories from the season passed, trip planning for next fall, dogs, arguing over college sports teams, and various and nefarious other topics du jour.

I've decided to do the dinner tapas-style... Spanish for "little plates." After having spent a week on the Iberian peninsula, I can very much attest to the fact that this is a great way to sample a ton of different food without committing to one dish. With all the critters I intend to cook, that'll come in handy. The menu is below, and all the items were either taken by me or my hunting buddies, and other ingredients I'm striving to make as local as possible:

SALAD COURSE:

Caesar Salad with Farm-Fresh Eggs

SOUP COURSE:

Smoked Wild Turkey and Woodcock Gumbo

FOWL COURSE:

Apple Smoked Bacon-Wrapped Hungarian Partridge with Jalapeno Slivers

Twelve-Herbs-and-Spices Southern Fried Pheasant Breast

Prairie Grouse Bratwurst Simmered in Boulevard Stout with Sautéed Onions

VENISON COURSE:

Homemade Pasta Rustica with Whitetail Bolognese Sauce

Axis Backstrap Medallions au Poivre

SIDES:

Bacon-Bundled Grilled Asparagus and Green Beans

Chipotle Sweet Potatoes

DESSERTS:

Guinness Beer Floats

Baby Ruth Stuffed Jalapenos

After dinner, there's talk of traveling to Lawrence (designated driver, of course) to see the Randy Rogers Band. All in all, a pretty damn fine end to the hunting season, wouldn't you say?

For those hunting buddies of ours who live elsewhere (or for those we haven't yet met), we'll hoist a glass or two in your honor. Photos and a post-mortem to come.

Christmas Gumbo: A Primer

It's become tradition at Casa Scampwalker to brew up a gumbo for Christmas Day.  And why not?  The cajun/creole stew is a rich and flavorful concoction, yet low on the pretense meter -- something that fits the way we celebrate Christmas (in our jammies, enjoying one another's company).

I didn't have my first gumbo until visiting New Orleans many years ago in college, but the dish stuck with me (literally and gastronomically).  From the proletariat version served at Mother's to the decadent Commander's Palace version, I was hooked.

It took me awhile to perfect my own version at home (I'm a flatlander, not a coonass), but I think I've got it down.  I won't give you the precise recipe (what fun is that?) but there are a few things I've learned over the years that turn a good gumbo into a great one.

Stock.  Cans of broth will do the trick, but a homemade stock is SO much better.  And it's not hard to do.  I strip the carcass of my smoked Thanksgiving and simmer it down with celery, carrots, onion, and garlic with bouquet garni for several hours.  The result is a thick and complex base to gumbo or soup of any sort.  Freeze it and use it at any time.

Roux.  It's the base of any classic French cuisine, and although it's two simple ingredients (flour and an oil of some type), it's deceptively difficult to do one right.  For my gumbo, I do two parts flour and one part canola oil, although I've also been known to substitute a little bacon grease for canola.  I call mine the Two Beer Roux, because it takes me two beers to turn it from white to a deep chocolate color.  Don't use too much heat, or you'll burn it and have a mess on your hands.  There's no set time, although 30 minutes more or less does the trick.  Another word of advice: have everything else prepared ahead of time, because you won't have time to chop anything once your roux is ready.

Meat.  You can put any combination of critter into a gumbo, and it's especially good for those particularly dark, strong-tasting birds like woodcock.  You can also salvage the more shot-up birds, since you're dicing everything up.  For this year's gumbo, I combined duck, woodcock, dove (which I mistakenly thought were more ducks), sausage, and a few frozen shrimp left over in the freezer.

We always make plenty more than we can eat at Christmas, but it freezes well and the flavors meld even better over time.  It's the Christmas gift that keeps on giving!

Texans: They Like Their Meat

Thanksgiving is a day that, among other things, our entire nation uses as an excuse to gorge ourselves.  It's in that spirit that I write about my most recent visit to the Lone Star State.

After last week's successful deer hunting trip, I met my parents in San Antonio for a brief 24 hours.  On the way from San Antonio to Fredericksburg, we stopped at Rudy's Barbecue, something of a legend in those parts for quality 'cue.  I hadn't eaten there since college (many more years ago than I care to admit), and my memories were fond.

I opted for the "beef" (also called brisket or sliced beef, or any combination thereof).  It was outstanding -- smoky, tender, and not a bit dry.  Wedged between two slices of stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth Wonderbread, slathered in sauce, it was heaven.  In my opinion, sliced beef defines Texas barbecue, and you won't get much better than Rudy's.  Appropriately enough, Rudy's is also housed in a convenience store and gas station -- not unlike my K.C. favorite, Oklahoma Joe's.  Coincidence?  I think not.

That evening, my parents and I attended the Gillespie County Wild Game Dinner at the fairgrounds.  And good thing, because I'm sure it attracted well over 500 attendees.  What a hoot!  For 20 bucks, you were entitled to every kind of wild critter under the sun, as well as an open bar that served Pilsner Urquell on tap and Becker Reserve Cabernet.

But the real belle of the ball was the dinner.  It was served buffet style from seven stations, and I had everything from axis venison chili to smoked wild turkey to chicken fried scimitar oryx.  And it was all good (which can't always be said for some wild game feeds).  Most notable?  Not a vegetable in sight!  (Of course, back when I lived in the Lone Star State, I quickly learned that a Texan's idea of vegetables typically includes pinto beans, mashed potatoes, and corn.)

After the dinner, there was a huge live auction that featured tons o' guns, hunting trips, and various assorted Texana.  It was a quick trip, but uniquely Texan nonetheless.

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner

My son J and I tagged along on a trip with Jon and Wes for a prairie chicken trip to north central Kansas, about a four hour drive from KC.  We hightailed it out of town after work on Friday, and stayed at a Super 8 motel while the hardier Jon and Wes camped out in 42-degree weather.  It was the best of both worlds, frankly... we got the campfire, marshmallows, and bourbon... while they got the cold sleep on the terra firma.

We started the morning hunt somewhat frustrated... one of our honey holes (Jon and Wes had done quite well there just a couple of weeks ago) failed to yield a bird within shooting range.  At this point, a bit of frustration and self-doubt was seeping in.  Those who hunt will understand -- wondering if somehow, some way, the bird gods are testing your patience, mettle, and dedication.  I'm not someone who measures success by fulfilling bag limits, but I do enjoy the excitement and satisfaction of good dog work and an occasional connection with a bird.

That afternoon, as I was feeling sorry for myself, the Astro warbled.  It indicated Vegas was on point, just over the hill ahead of me, about 60 yards away.  I didn't hustle much -- I was a little frustrated by her performance thus far this season.  She seemed enthusiastic enough, but for one reason or another, she wasn't making any productive points.  I figured this was yet another tweetie bird encounter.

I crested the ridge along with Jon, and we discovered Vegas locked up with Jon's setter Ike close behind.  I still was in no hurry.  Jack snapped a picture or two, and Dottie trotted up and reluctantly honored, and then locked up hard.  By this time, Wes had joined us and we moved in to flush the offending meadowlark.

What happened next will stay with me for many years.  Three prairie chickens erupted within arm's length, presenting amazing straightaway shots as they flew down a draw.  I've always been a remarkably quick shot, and I fired the first round.  MISS!  (I said I was a quick shot, but not necessarily a good one.)  About that time, I remember hearing Jon fire to my left, exploding one bird, and then dropping another.  I lined up the second barrel of my SKB 385, slapped the trigger, and dropped the third bird.  About that time, the dogs broke to retrieve the birds, and a fourth chicken erupted from the same spot.  It barely rose from the ground, gaining speed, but putting itself right between us and the dogs. 

Our guns were empty, and neither Jon nor I had much of a shot anyway.  At about 40 yards, the bird veered to the right, presenting Wes with a difficult, but makeable shot.  And make it he did.  After more than a bit of whooping and hollering, we collected our birds (including an amazing find by Ike for that last bird, that had hidden itself deep in some grass).

I write this as my family and I digest said birds, after a healthy marinade in soy sauce, olive oil, liberal sliced garlic, and rosemary.  PC's are more like venison than chicken.  My daughter described them as rich, and she's right.  Rich in flavor, and rich as in the way I feel after a good meal that has been provided for me.