What Would Elmer Do?

        My son killed a rabbit this past weekend.

      My husband claims that the hunting process is essential in our son’s development, and consequently they go hunting together often. They both love it; stalking the animal, shooting it, skinning and gutting it...and it’s all supposed to be a necessary experience for a boy, “in order for him to develop into a confident man”, I was told. (A man who needs to conquer nature and ruin some harmless fuzzy bunny’s fun?) Thankfully, our daughter doesn’t care to hunt that much. Wouldn’t want her growing up to become a confident man....

       Actually, in our house, we believe that if you are going to eat meat, you should participate in the entire hunting/gutting/packaging process so that you can really appreciate your meal. There is something about knowing where your dinner came from and how it got onto your plate, that makes ‘giving thanks’ hold a lot more value. And I believe that it’s absolutely hypocritical to have an aversion or abjection to hunting, but then buy a pretty steak in the store or restaurant. Besides, it’s the ultimate organic meal when you’ve absorbed yourself into nature and labored for sometimes days prior to sitting down for your burger.  In this case, the solo skinned rabbit has been lying shrouded in a plastic bag in our fridge since Sunday…..and today is the day I’m supposed to prepare it for dinner.

        I tried, I really did….to slip that bald bunny from its bag, but the more I looked at it, the more I felt nauseous. I’m not new at the ‘from meadow to menu” thing, and I have indeed successfully participated in several hunts and their following procedures. Fluffy however, had me repeatedly trying to hold on to my breakfast.

        It looked like an aborted fetus… and although I kept telling myself that it was just a silly wabbit, I still couldn’t get over the vulgarity of that skinless thing. Elk burger is one thing, and even an elk steak is tolerable, but an entire body is just a little macabre to me…especially when it looks like one of those disturbing photos the anti-choice people distastefully plaster around.

        After returning Peter Rabbit to the refrigerator, and contemplating my culinary conundrum, I sent a text to my brother. A fantastic cook, who can make Grape Nuts taste good, I knew he’d have the answer to how to cook the damn thing in the most flavorful way but with the least amount of contact possible. My message said “Please Help” and a photo of the carcass was attached.

        I could tell I sparked his gastronomic curiosity and overwhelmed his imagination with delightful thoughts of Cuisse de Lapin Confites or something….but I obviously hadn’t been specific enough because his response to my plea suggested cutting it up, braising it with onions and garlic, before adding paprika and essentially turning it into Paprika Rabbit. Braise? Cut it up? Was he out of his mind? Did he forget he was texting me and not Jeffrey Dahmer? I dread cooking to begin with, and already feeling like I was part of some sick ritual, I wasn’t about to cut up anything.

        So, I decided to go my own route, and plunk Bugs into a large pot and roast him. Squeezing the body out of the sack, I tried to think happy thoughts, but the little legs kept poking into the sides and the furless body slipped between my apparently insubstantial fingers. Gagging, I shook the thing free, and as it tumbled into it’s final resting place on top of the carrots, celery and potatoes, I quickly slammed the lid onto the pot. The twisted irony of Flopsy floating atop a layer of carrots required that I get some air….

       So now, Thumper’s marinating in the pot in the fridge. I’ll throw him into the oven just in time for dinner…so that our son can complete the cycle.

       The things we do for our kids….

       Tonight I’ll be eating salad.