I embarked on one culinary odyssey after another that all ended happily in my belly.
Having evolved in my meat-hunting ways, I soon became the hit at many dinner parties, except for a couple when I didn’t get the memo that most folks at the party would be vegetarians.
“This isn’t gamey like venison is supposed to taste. It’s delicious! Can I have more?” I heard that enough times to make me wonder if there was some sort of a conspiracy against wild game. Most game will be delicious if a hunter takes the time in the field and the kitchen to treat the meat with respect it deserves. Some instances, such as taking a big buck during the rut or an old mountain goat, warrant burgering and canning most of an animal due to slight gaminess or toughness. Canning is a great way to turn sixty pounds of smelly meat chock-full of hormones into excellent eating. Canning game you forgot from last season is a good way to maximize taste as well as space in your freezer for fresh meat.
All this writing has me drooling. I think I’m going open a can of venison for breakfast burritos and marinate some steaks for dinner. My girlfriend, a vegetarian for years until she met me, is sighing in disbelief.
“I can’t believe I’m eating meat for breakfast again and liking it.”
“Wait till dinner—the steaks will be even better!” I say as I cut away little bits of sinew and filament, pound each steak with a fork, and put them in a bowl to marinate.
In closing, if any art curators are interested in launching a meat-hunting exhibit, feel free to contact me. I have a few ideas, as well as a couple of noble buddies excited about the potential of modeling for artists. They’ll work for a few beers and venison if you prepare it right.
NEVER CRY HALIBUT
WHEN I WAS A KID, I was forced to go fishing in a similar way other youngsters are made to go to church or eat vegetables. There were many types of fish to froth, drag, and otherwise disturb the water after—Dolly Varden, pink, coho, chum, and king salmon, to name a few—but none of them made my imagination run wild like halibut.
“How big can they get?” I’d ask my dad.
“Bigger than me,” he’d say. It was mythical to consider there were fish bigger than my dad swimming in the ocean’s murk.
Most of the halibut we caught were about the size of Ping-Pong paddles, but knowing there was a chance our bait might find its way into the mouth of monster was enough to make me and my brothers plead to stop trolling for cohos and give a halibut hole a try. I couldn’t figure out why Dad often seemed reluctant.
“Halibut! It’s a big one!” I would scream a few moments after my lead weight bounced on the ocean bottom. Not even Reid, my gullible younger brother, bothered to look over. I’d babble as the giant tried to tear the pole from my hands. If it looked like I might lose the rod, Dad would intervene; otherwise, he’d let me battle it out with what often evolved into something bigger than a halibut could possibly grow. He’d stare off wistfully as other boats slowly dragged for cohos and wince when fishermen waved their nets in preparation of bringing a fish aboard. Usually after a few minutes of groaning, moaning, and whining, the hook popped free, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Probably was a whale. Lucky it got off,” I’d say. “Might have killed us if I got it to the surface. And even if it didn’t, we’d have to tow it back to the dock, and that would likely mean being attacked by killer whales, sharks, or a giant squid.”
“You had the bottom!” my older brother, Luke, yelled. I fought back tears, knowing he was jealous because I had more bites and hookups than he did. Somehow he always managed to catch more fish.
Once, after crying halibut, I was doing battle with a monster that felt as big as the bottom. My pole started hammering down. Dad was watching other boats troll, and my two brothers were staring blandly at the slate-gray oceanscape, ignoring me as I tried to figure out why this fish felt so different from all the other halibut I’d hooked and lost.
“Must have the bottom,” I shrugged, trying to free the line. Dad tore the pole from my hands.
“Halibut! It’s a big one!” he said, bracing himself as the fish ran and line spun out. Complete pandemonium ensued; I grabbed a gaff and started waving it, nearly impaling a number of family members as I tried to get into position.
“It’s going to be a while,” he grunted and pushed me out of the way. Fishing teaches kids a lot of things, like how to enjoy nature, how to take pride in bringing home dinner, and most importantly how to curse. Right then and there, the swivel popped, freeing the fish, and the old man gave us a fine lesson on how to talk like a halibut fisherman.
Thinking about it now, I can’t recall my dad ever swearing except for when he lost fish. Well, there was the time my mom attacked a full-grown black bear with a broom because it was trying to take a bag of flour from her mudroom pantry. The horrified bear left the flour on the shelf and dashed into the forest. There ought to be a “Forget the Gun and the Dog, Beware of the Woman with a Broom” sign posted on the door of my folk’s house. Let that be a warning to any burglars considering raiding my mom’s pantry. Though small, she’s a ball of fury and will attack you.
Me, age five, fighting something much bigger and more dangerous than any known fish. (Photo courtesy of Lynnette Dihle)
Through the years, I’ve become pretty good at dressing and acting like a halibut fisherman. My sweatpants and fleece are usually coated with a mixture of crusty salt and slime. I’m not the best, but I’m fairly decent when it comes to swearing, lying, and telling stories. After all, fishing is mostly about fooling other fisherman that you caught more and bigger fish than they did. I work hard but rarely get much done. One might say I’m the ideal fisherman, except that I lack the ability to catch fish, particularly halibut.
As I grew older and was looking for work, I’d put on a wool sweater, wander the docks, and talk, with a hint of an accent, to commercial fishing captains. One would hire me, thinking they were getting a Norwegian secret weapon as a deckhand. Being of Scandinavian descent and not a good fisherman was nearly unheard of. A day or so later, when we’d be far away from port and the price of diesel didn’t warrant a return trip, I would confess to being French, which was a quarter true.
“French! Why, if I would have known!” This would be followed by a long soliloquy cursing baguettes, black turtlenecks, and berets. I would threaten to go on strike, but this only excited my captains further. In time, most began to somewhat affectionately call me Jonah and only shook their heads and grumbled when I made a mistake or the fishing was poor. If they knew I was mostly Scandinavian, my health would have suffered for it.
“You look like a bobblehead. You have to be Norwegian!” one skipper said excitedly after he shook my hand and welcomed me aboard his boat. We were crabbing that summer, and I quickly became adept at birding, telling the captain how to stack pots, and making watercolor paintings of him cursing against beautiful backdrops of mountains and ocean. When he asked for a hand, I would tell him I had an acute shellfish allergy.
“Yeah, sorry, I can’t touch crab, but I’m almost done writing a poem about how hard crabbing is. Just give me a sec, and I’ll read it to you. By the way, can you make me another cup of coffee? Don’t forget the cream and sugar this time. And make sure it’s organic.”
On a rare day off, I borrowed a skiff and dropped a hook into the shallows near the mouth of a spawning salmon stream. Almost instantly a nice halibut bit, and my pole started hammering. Somehow, after slitting its jugular with a dull pocketknife and letting it bleed out for a few minutes, I managed to get the fifty-pound fish aboard with a broken salmon gaff. It was the biggest halibut I’d seen alive. Now that I was an expert, I started offering advice to anyone who’d listen on how to catch halibut.
“They’re in the shallows. Everyone’s fishing too deep,”