I have fond recollections of squirrel hunting with my dad in the bluffs near Cross Plains with .22. He taught us to be quiet and to observe the outdoors. He'd usually get a couple, bring them home and skin them. My mother would cook the meat. It was not tasty.
Years later -- after I got my own .22 -- I shot my first and last squirrel and unilaterally called a peace treaty.
There are glands between a squirrel's forepaws that have to be removed before cooking or the squirrel will taste horrible. As more and more Americans move away from their rural roots these little bits of knowledge become forgotten.
Many a tree rat fell to my .22 back in the lean years of the early 80s.
Tastes do vary, because I recall them being quite good fried in a cast-iron skillet. Of course, it would take a half-dozen to make a meal, but that was often managed when my brother and I cooperated.
Had we a recipe like the one referenced I'm sure they would have been even better
My father grew up in Depression-era northern Alabama, in a family that knew some damn hard times.
He, as a boy, had eaten squirrel, opossum, and other forms of American back-country "bush meat".
When he made it into the middle class, he wanted absolutely nothing to do with such reminders of a painful past, with the exception of the rabbits he hunted & that his French wife made a lovely lapin au vin with white wine & mushrooms. Both my brother & I loved it, but the buckshot could be a bit tough on the teeth.
My grandparents were Italian peasant farmers who immigrated to the NYC suburbs. "Locally produced" squirrel would make occasional appearances in the Sunday pasta sauce well into the 1970s.
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9 comments:
I have fond recollections of squirrel hunting with my dad in the bluffs near Cross Plains with .22. He taught us to be quiet and to observe the outdoors. He'd usually get a couple, bring them home and skin them. My mother would cook the meat. It was not tasty.
Years later -- after I got my own .22 -- I shot my first and last squirrel and unilaterally called a peace treaty.
There are glands between a squirrel's forepaws that have to be removed before cooking or the squirrel will taste horrible. As more and more Americans move away from their rural roots these little bits of knowledge become forgotten.
Many a tree rat fell to my .22 back in the lean years of the early 80s.
Tastes do vary, because I recall them being quite good fried in a cast-iron skillet. Of course, it would take a half-dozen to make a meal, but that was often managed when my brother and I cooperated.
Had we a recipe like the one referenced I'm sure they would have been even better
My father grew up in Depression-era northern Alabama, in a family that knew some damn hard times.
He, as a boy, had eaten squirrel, opossum, and other forms of American back-country "bush meat".
When he made it into the middle class, he wanted absolutely nothing to do with such reminders of a painful past, with the exception of the rabbits he hunted & that his French wife made a lovely lapin au vin with white wine & mushrooms. Both my brother & I loved it, but the buckshot could be a bit tough on the teeth.
When I was young I ate some squirrel, on the principal you ate what you hunted.
Now, I'm not so sure I would eat squirrel:
NYT
Cripes, with all those spices and additions, it'd make cow-pies almost edible.
My grandparents were Italian peasant farmers who immigrated to the NYC suburbs. "Locally produced" squirrel would make occasional appearances in the Sunday pasta sauce well into the 1970s.
Viator, my mother loved squirrel brains. Sad to learn that they're potentially fatal.
But for that matter, I've come to believe eating brains is a bad idea no matter the species.
Squirrel brains are believed to cause dementia.
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