Girl Hunter Part 18

4. Place the duck in the bottom of the pan on top of the cherry sauce. Put the pan in the oven and immediately lower the temperature to 425F for 20 to 25 minutes, until the internal temperature is about 135F. Remove from the oven and cover in tinfoil for 10 minutes, to help the juices retract into the meat. Then untruss the bird, carve it into joints, and serve with the sauce from the pan.

Also try: brant, coot, duck, gallinule, goose, grouse, prairie chicken, partridge, pheasant, pigeon, ptarmigan, quail, rail, snipe

Pheasant with Roasted Apples

Serves 4 There is something about pheasant and apples. They are simply meant to be together. The meat itself is a bit sweet and blends together with the muted sweetness of the apples and cream. It is a cla.s.sic combination.

2 whole pheasant, skin off or on

Salt and pepper

6 pieces bacon or pork fat, cut into 1/8-inch-thick strips

2 tablespoons b.u.t.ter

2 large apples, cored and sliced into 1/4-inch wedges

1 tablespoon Calvados

7 tablespoons heavy cream

1. Preheat the oven to 450F. Season the pheasant with salt and pepper inside and out. Lay the bacon over the pheasant and secure it with kitchen twine or toothpicks.

2. In a heavy-bottomed ovenproof pan, melt 1 tablespoon of the b.u.t.ter and brown the pheasants on all sides, 5 to 10 minutes.

3. Remove from the pan and set aside. Add the remaining tablespoon of b.u.t.ter to the pan and fry the apples quickly in the b.u.t.ter. Place the pheasants on top of the apples. Cover with tinfoil or a lid and place in the oven. Immediately lower the temperature to 425F for 30 minutes. Five minutes before removing from the oven, pour the Calvados and heavy cream over the pheasant. Remove from the oven, untruss the pheasant, carve into joints, and serve very hot with the apples and sauce.

Also try: brant, coot, duck, gallinule, goose, grouse, prairie chicken, partridge, pheasant, pigeon, ptarmigan, quail, rail, snipe

Pheasant Tagine

Serves 4 I first learned a version of this recipe while cooking in the south of France, where the cuisine is so heavily influenced by the Mediterranean. The combination of spices is wonderfully aromatic and lends itself well to any combination of vegetables and protein. In true Mediterranean fas.h.i.+on, the dish itself is light and tangy, using only olive oil, not b.u.t.ter, and a good dose of lemon in two forms. You will need to preserve the lemon in advance or buy it from a specialty spice shop. A tagine is actually a clay pot with a deep cone-shaped lid, which is designed to keep the moisture within the dish. Once the cover is removed, the base can be used to serve from at the table. I tend to use a skillet, though, instead of a traditional tagine, because it browns the meat and vegetables better and can also be served tableside. It is also easier to use around the campfire.

8 pheasant legs, or 4 legs and 4 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, bone in

4 medium-size carrots, peeled, halved lengthwise, and cut into 3-inch pieces

4 medium-size zucchini, halved lengthwise and cut into 3-inch pieces

2 large red bell peppers, seeded and cut into 3-inch-long thick pieces

1 whole preserved lemon (page 236), rinsed well, pulp and pith removed, sliced into strips or diced

2 tablespoons grated fresh ginger

1 tablespoon ground coriander

1 tablespoon ground c.u.min

1 teaspoon c.u.min seeds (optional)

2 cloves garlic, minced

Juice of 1 lemon

1/2 cup olive oil, plus extra for browning

1/2 teaspoon sea salt

Freshly ground black pepper

1. Combine all of the ingredients in a bowl and let marinate for 20 to 30 minutes.

2. Heat a tagine, large skillet, or heavy-bottomed ca.s.serole dish until very hot. Brown the pheasant parts in a bit of olive oil until browned on both sides, about 5 minutes.

3. Add the vegetables and saute with the pheasant.

4. Deglaze the pan with the marinade from the bowl and then lower the heat. Cook, covered, over low heat or in the oven at 350F for 45 minutes.

Also try: brant, coot, duck, gallinule, goose, grouse, prairie chicken, partridge, pheasant, pigeon, ptarmigan, quail, rail, snipe The whole secret of the study of nature lies in learning how to use one's eyes.

-GEORGE SAND

8.

Waiting for Pate in the Floatant The morning of my very first turkey hunt in the Village, in the days when high heels and martinis were much more familiar to me than camo and turkey callers, I saw a group of young wild hogs running across our taillights as the Commish and I drove to the woods before sunrise. I was blurry eyed still, sucking in hot coffee when I saw them and blurted out, "Those look good." It was an instinct, a voice that came out and spoke without my help. The Commish laughed and I did, too. In the dark morning, those small hogs didn't look like hairy four-legged creatures to me; rather, like running sausages. For as long as I have been alive, my memories have been defined by what I ate during those experiences. I couldn't always tell you the name of the person I was with during that particular moment, but could describe in precise detail the Nicoise salad I had in 1995. I have a friend my age that may be the only person I know who also hunts with visions of running hams in his mind. Like me, Peter Pagoni found hunting not at birth but a bit later in life, while visiting all of his relatives in the Village. He is a lawyer and a professor by day, but in the wee hours of the morning, when it is still dark, he is a Louisiana duck hunter, as sincere as the rest, but a little more thoughtful and philosophical, a little more self-deprecating about the uncertainty of it all. I decide to go hunting with Peter next, in his beloved New Orleans.

On Bourbon Street, a s.h.i.+ny, smooth-skinned girl beckons to me from her door with two scarlet nails, dollars attached to her hips, her voice sweet and oily. The air is filled with competing music, some from the room of the girl, and some from other doors and windows, the notes collide, mixed into a c.o.c.ktail of music that somehow makes sense, but only here.

Inside, against the sounds, are the sincere faces of the singers making them. Past that, through a miniature doorway, under a golden fleur-de-lis, is a man with a stiff underbite and a tall, black cap and s.h.i.+ny, ta.s.seled shoes, who catches shrimp by day, and by night plays the drums as they have never been played before. Whiskers protrude from under his polished nose and his face reflects the orange light of the room crowded with strangers, all tapping their feet on the old wooden floor.

Out on the street, the blacktop s.h.i.+mmers and sweats in the lamplight and reflects the houses above, their facades studded with Romeo catchers and balconies that sag like rotting lace. The narrow shotgun houses wear peeling shutters with holes punched through and weeping ivy that slips its way in and out of the slats.

At Cafe du Monde, a man sits on a fire hydrant humming into his tuba, and inside, powdered sugar floats in a cloud across the room as people exhale into their beignets, and it drifts down again, into the pores of the place, soaking into the blue slate ground to be pecked by waiting pigeons.

Here in New Orleans, everyone is named Baby. It is one of the only places I know of where you can indulge in watching the girl with the two scarlet nails and sweet oily voice and have access to good duck hunting a few hours later, at five a.m. on Bayou Terra Buff.

At four a.m., Peter and I drive the road through Saint Bernard Parish and a series of bays that interconnect, until we arrive at a concrete boat launch. At the launch, a freshly dead coyote is being casually ignored, and surly-looking men in faded jeans look as though they haven't left the site for many weeks. It is possible that they haven't; duck hunting season for some is a religious inst.i.tution.

To remind us, a pickup truck comes roaring from behind and screeches to a halt. Two boys jump out in full camouflage, their pirogue (pea-row), a narrow metal boat, decked out in fake straw cover.

"How has the hunting been?" Peter asks, to break the ice.