roadkill
below is a story that was written by my Aunt Kristi and her adventures in roadkill. i take no responsibility.
So, the deer story. Yes.
Well, it’s Wednesday early afternoon, and Nathan and I are on our way back from my errand, heading south on the Interstate in town. There’s a stretch on the north end of town that’s not developed all that much (yet), and lo and behold, we see a doe come springing up from a meadowy area, about two cars ahead of us. First I say, “Oh look! Bambi!” and then I say, “NO! Don’t get hit!” But she got hit; spun her around and left her lying in the opposite ditch. (Rotten driver didn’t even bother to stop. I hope he hits a skunk next.) Well, of course I stop, and Nathan’s going “Oh, poor thing” right along with me.
She lived for a while, and tried valiantly to get up, but not with two legs bashed up. While Nathan petted her neck, I called the Dept. of Wildlife, and after a while, an officer showed up. I asked if I could have the deer, so he wrote out a permit for me (”Road Kill Possession Permit”). Next problem: how to field dress it, armed with a spoon. Nope, that ain’t happenin’. I called around to Mike, then a friend, then another friend. No one was reachable/available. So Nathan stayed there with the deer while I raced back home for a sharper spoon knife, and rags and junk. I learned something that day: my kitchen knives are way too dull. I learned something else: deer are held together pretty doggone well on the inside. And it would have been better if the weather were a lot cooler; warm weather hastens the, um, stinking-up process.
Nathan helped me out by moving the critter, holding a leg out of the way, and finding a stout stick to prop open the rib cage and stuff. Meanwhile, I’m pretty darned surprised that no one’s sent a dozen cop cars screaming over to check out the woman holding the knife, bloody up to the elbows, and some poor kid standing nearby. Quite fortunately, there’s a stream that runs near the area (probably where Miss Bambi was heading), so we got to wash off most of the gore.
Our pastor hunts every year, and has a nice set-up in his garage. I managed to get ahold of him to ask him if I could use his facilities; meanwhile, the guy in the studio next to ours came with his truck to transport it. Nathan and I got it butchered that night (Eric, the pastor, helped hang it up and stuff), and that night I started the process of cleaning the meat of fat, sinew, etc. And, Nathan and I ate some steak that night, and declared it good.
I’d saved the hide, of course (Eric said he never does; I was aghast, and told him to call me up–I’LL come get it!!), scraped it and soaked it fairly clean, and rolled it up in a garbage bag and stuck it in the freezer. I mentioned this to Kimber and Mike. Now, a little background story is necessary here. When the folks’ house was being built, some of us went over to look at the process. There was a dead hummingbird lying in the kitchen area. I saved it, of course. It stayed in the freezer for quite a while.
Back to the deer hide: I mentioned about freezing it. Kimber, who was tired from a long day at work, makes this wonderfully pained, despairing look, and glancing up at Mike, wails, “Ewww, there’s always something dead in our freezer.”
Oh, Nathan and I got a good laugh, too–I’d brought a bucket (to the highway site), and when I cut out the heart, I told Nathan to get the bucket so I could put it in there. “For WHAT?” he asked. Well, to eat it, of course. At Eric’s house, we put it in a ziploc bag, separately. Later that night, at home, while I was putting bags of meat into the fridge, Kimber walked by. “Catch!” I exclaimed, as I tossed the heart at her. “EEEEEwww!!!” and she ran away. That was fun.
I’d saved a rib bone, just because. Much to my surprise and delight, while at dinner at the folks’ with Sue & Bob et al., Sue asked hopefully if I’d saved any more bones. Right on, woman! Someone else who finds these things interesting! Sure wish I had, now. Shoot, as it was, Nathan thought I was pretty warped for saving the rib. Now, how in the heck does it happen that I’m this pioneer/frontier-woman-wannabe, and my kids are a couple of ninnies? Somethin’ ain’t right.
But that’s the story. Fun adventure! ‘xcept that now my nickname is Roadkill.
