Oh Deer, I need some Carbs!

My dear son, TER, is a hunter. It's an outdoor activity that he and my brother, his dear uncle JET, have connected over. The boy has been joining the man at the Hunt Club for years. It has come to my attention that the rule is that What Happens At The Club, Stays At The Club. It is legend - the amount of liquor consumed, four-letter words hurled about, and the not-for-children movies shown to anyone who happens to be in the room at the time. Neither of the two would ever confess to such, but I would bet $5.00 that my 13-year old has already had his first taste of beer; or possibly whiskey, since that is a family favorite. Quality time in the form of Bulleit Bourbon Bonding.

I have never been to the Hunt Club, and feel in my soul that I haven't missed out on a thing. I'll drink my Jim Beam in my own home, in my own Diet Coke, thank you very much. If I want to be with a slew of rowdy, politically-incorrect drunken delinquents, I would just as soon plant myself in a nearby NFL locker room, the center of fraternal attachment. It is easy for me to not hang out at the Club for an even more discriminating reason. I do not hunt. It's simply not my thing. The idea of awakening at the butt crack of dawn to don unbecoming coveralls to track a dear deer just does not interest me. However, my son and my brother find this exhilarating. Barely conscious and freezing their disguised-as-woods hineys off, they climb trees to hang out on a stand, waiting for hours just to see if a doe or buck happens by.

My disinterest in the hunt should not be confused with a dislike of it. With a dear population that truly is out of control, there must be methods employed to control those Bambi-esque creatures of God. I do not feel that hunting is cruel and would never begrudge the men at the Hunt Club the pursuit of their 'hobby'. TER has now killed three dear in his career; the first kill was the most satisfying and we have a tasteful photo of the boy and his prey framed and hung on a wall of our home. All hoofed ruminants taken down by the members of the Club are butchered into various food items. This is the fact that makes it very easy for me to not disparage what some see as butchery. UNLESS......

I become responsible for cooking said meat. There has not been a time when I have consumed the venison in any form. ** They tell me that is has a beef-like taste, only more "gamey". And I don't think they mean Monopoly or Pictionary. Even though I have heavily drawn the line at my lips regarding what I will do with this stuff, I am still not thrilled with the prospect of making supper when TER requests some sort of venison. Tonight, it was venison burgers, to be made of the ground venison which has been in my freezer for many, many months. I had hoped it was successfully hidden behind the Eggo waffles and frozen peas, but I guess not.

So, oh, what the hell. "Sure, honey," I say, "Deer Burgers it is". When packaged, the ground venison is in the form of a loaf of Jimmy Dean sausage, only ickier. Forming the very red leaking meet into patties was part 1 of the job. Part two was cooking them on the griddle. While venison MAY taste like beef, it sure as hell doesn't smell like it. More ickiness. Fifteen minutes later, the burgers are ready and TER is practically jumping with delight at the stove when I slide his burger, now dressed with a slice of American cheese, onto the bun on his plate. mmmmm mmmmm The burger was yummy, so I was told. I'll take his word for it, 'cuz ain't no way I was going to formulate a first-hand opinion on the matter!! (Ham and cheese sandwich served as my dinner later in the evening.)

In the end, the masticated meat sat happily in TER's tummy, but the stench of the process of cooking it lingered in my nose. And not in a good way. Smells such as this, and Limburger cheese and the Korean Kimchee, are not chased out of a room by a quick spray of Lysol. These nasal offenders must be eradicated by the production of another vittle which produces an enticing order, so as to counteract that of the offending venison.

I chose bread. I love baking bread. By hand. No machine for me. Cooking (stuff I'm going to eat) is an activity that can de-stress me and sometimes even cancels the personal pity party I am having at a given moment. Kneading the dough is very cathartic and a fantastic way to physically eliminate some anger. And it makes the kitchen smell heavenly. And smell heavenly my house does now - all three loaves are out of the oven and cooling on the counter. They yeasty aroma has wafted all the way to my office upstairs at the other end of the house! My nose is happy.

And now I have three venison burgers and three loaves of bread. Let me know if you'll be stopping by for dinner tomorrow. Stay as long as you like, but no longer than three days, or else you and any fish I happen to have lying around will start to stink as well. And then I'll have to bake more bread.

** I would never have made it on Fear Factor as the only 'exotic' foods I have ever consumed are escargot and turkey balls (yes, Those Balls).