Today I was able to add to the list of numerous things a scrawny Jewish boy from the 'burbs should not do ... Hunt. However, I decided to put my love of living things aside for a few hours while I ventured into the world of carnage also known as hunting.
However, there was a catch. I was not given a gun. Nor was I given a bow or arrow. Heck, I didn't even get a wooden whistle that made the mating sound of a pheasant. It was strictly my job to trudge through wooded areas of the farm we were hunting at in hopes of flushing the pheasants out so the people with guns could shoot them. I couldn't tell if the people I was hunting with were joking or not when they instructed me to walk through the woods and scare the birds so they could fire shotgun shells in my general direction. Perhaps the only positive in my situation was that I was lucky enough not to be hunting with the vice president of our great nation; at least this meant I had a fighting chance.
When the hunt was over, and our group had killed about 15 birds, 1 jackrabbit, and a cooler of beer, I did learn how to clean a pheasant. This process took me back to my ninth grade science class. I remember walking into class one day and seeing a little baby pig stretched out on a metal tray. I thought about playing the whole "not kosher" deal, but decided that it would be a good learning experience. It was the same thing with the pheasant. I learned how to get rid of the feathers, where to enter the bird in order to remove the internal organs, and how to slice the gizzard up for good eaten'. I am almost positive these skills will help me somewhere down the line, as pheasant was such a popular dish in my household growing up. Mom, this time I'll clean the pheasant so you don't have to.
