I’m not a fancy chef. I don’t even play one on TV. Like a lot of men, I like to cook, but I have only a few tried-and-true recipes I stick with.
True to my heritage, I can whip you up some of the best beans and cornbread you ever sunk a tooth into. I even went to another level and got away from doing pinto beans all the time. I now cook a big pot of white beans – usually great northern – and I always add a smoked hamhock to cook with them and I well I can’t tell you everything in my recipe.
I will readily admit that having the skill to do a pot of beans, the occasional skillet of fried potatoes (with ramps in the spring, but we will talk about that some other time) and smoke a pork shoulder for barbecue does not exactly qualify me to compete on “Iron Chef America.”
However, I have spent a few days in the woods in and around hunting camps, and I have been associated with various and sundry deer hunters, and I have dined on deer meat. I’ve tasted some venison so exquisite I contemplated never eating beef again. I’ve also sat down to offerings of venison I’m not sure a starving wolverine – who don’t pass up much food-wise, starving or not – would have eaten.
Most people who say they don’t like venison (or really any wild game) almost always say the same thing. Ready? Let’s say it all together, class!