The haunting horror of the hunt

Where is summer? It seems that just a few weeks ago we welcomed the bone warming heat of the summer sun, and now the mild and gentle feel of fall has befallen us. Golf, gardening and picnics will soon end as the days shorten, nights cool and we settle into the comforting predictability of the school year. Hopefully we have a ways to go before fall fully materializes, but two or three years ago Mark and I left town amidst a warm early October, and returned home a week later to frost-killed tomato bushes and gardens that showed little sign of life. It could happen again!

As the seasons transition, so do my thoughts and plans. One day soon winter clothing and heartier pantry supplies will replace summer stocks. I will accumulate books and projects to fill my days and satisfy my creative energies during the cold days and nights that separate us from the warmth of next summer’s sun. In the interim, I will revel in the snug comfort of my home, daily tea at 3, the wafting aromas of soup in the slow cooker and baking breads.

Changes are predictable with my beloved Mark, also. According to other wives, many of the local husbands follow suit. They perform their annual and mysterious morph from enlightened contemporary males to chawing, chest-pounding, back-slapping, macho-guffawing hunters reminiscent of the characters in some of our favorite Westerns. I believe it’s a ritual brought on by the looming of that favorite of all testosterone-driven seasons: Deer Hunting.

Mark has worked diligently this spring and summer in our garden to produce garden produce for our larder. He has fished often to fill our freezer with perch, walleye and trout. He will rest only when he has filled the remaining freezer space with venison.

In preparation, he will ritually clean his rifles and guns, and display a devotion I haven’t seen since early spring when he prepared for his first fishing expedition and night crawler-gathering holocaust of the year. As the aromatic mixture of gun oil and cigar smoke fills his man-cave downstairs, he will relive the hunting adventures of the past and enthusiastically impart them to anyone who ventures into that space.

He will plan the menu for the week of the hunt, the apex being the celebratory meal of fried fresh deer liver and onions at dinner the night of the first kill. The mere thought of that meal sends him into a salivating frenzy during his pre-hunt preparations. I am not involved in the food planning of his trip since he wants nothing to do with vegetables other than potatoes and onions, or fruits of any kind. Fiber does not pass those lips during his sojourn into deer territory. He will come home in agony.

When he does return home, victorious in his pursuit of game, he will hang the carcass in our garage for a few days while it ages. He will butcher it into roasts, steaks and back straps, and what remains will be ground with pork and a few seasonings into hamburger, which makes wonderful meatloaf and meatballs.

At this time of year, my nurturing instincts go with the fearful and vulnerable deer. I doubt that I could pull that trigger. My sensitive nose and stomach preclude my gutting anything. Cleaning a turkey cavity before I stuff it is the closest I have ever come to that. Mark has explained to me that were it necessary to do so for survival, I could rise to the occasion and engage in the hunt. Perhaps, but I guarantee that all dried beans, peanut butter and tofu sources would be depleted before I would step up to that plate. Thank goodness for men!

Off he will go in a couple of weeks, happily seeking a yearling to hang his tag upon. Mark has always been a fine provider. And I’ll remind myself of that every time I bite into a delectable morsel of venison while the furnace roars and the cold winds of winter blow around our cozy abode. Happy Hunting, dear husband! Be safe.