The Housing Bubble

Okay, for those of you who’ve asked, here’s an excerpt from “A Roadkill Christmas,” my account of how I made do on a meager holiday budget a couple of years back. For those with a lively sense of culinary adventure, nothing beats the fun of “found” protein sources. And for those with perhaps less-than-welcome relations all expecting to be fed and entertained come Thursday, it’s a dandy way to discourage them from showing up in the first place.

“Roadkill….” “No, really.”

Times are hard. And accordingly, the creative cook must work with the ingredients on hand.
 Sometimes these are pristine and readily available, and sometimes, well, you have to make due with what you’ve got.

If you’re facing a feasting holiday with a depleted larder, take heart. One of my all-time favorite Christmas dinners featured a roadkill, and to this day my mouth waters as I remember how magical the meal turned out to be.

For those whose initial reaction might be revulsion, let me just say that properly prepared, it’s not nearly as gawd-awful as you might imagine. And with a little creativity, (and the stomach to google for butchering instructions,) it’s at the very least bound to be memorable.

It had been snowing on and off that December evening, and by the time I got to the canyon on my way back from town, there was ice all over the road. I was fortunate I’d been driving slowly, because if I had sped by like I usually did, I’d have missed it. The plumage caught my headlights and reflected off the glistening ice…a peacock. Likely estray from the ranch up canyon. I pulled over and carefully peeled it off the pavement. It was a big one, maybe 15 pounds or so, and already beginning to freeze. Granted, there was a sizable chunk out of the breast where whatever had nabbed it had gouged out a dinner, but danged if I was going to let that discourage me. I mean, how often do you get a chance to dine on peacock?

I got it home, skinned and gutted the thing, blasted it clean with a garden hose and carefully trimmed the mangled part from the carcass. Then I coated it with kosher salt, set it in the refrigerator, and went to bed. The next morning, I rinsed off the salt, patted it dry, inspected it for any unspeakable things I’d missed the night before, and finding none, re-koshered it, and stuck it back it in the fridge for another 12 hours.

That night I gave it a final rinse and brined it overnight in a huge stockpot to which I’d added two cups of salt, a cup of maple syrup, and enough cold water to cover. The next morning I dried it, stuffed it with figs and black walnuts from the orchard, along with a quartered orange, and a bit of fresh chopped ginger. Then I trussed it, rolled it in cracked black pepper and dried garden herbs, and slow-smoked it over apple wood for the next two days while I combed the oak forest and rummaged through the remnants of my garden and pantry for stuff I could use for accompaniments.

I’d alerted a couple of my epicurean nerd friends of my find, and they were sufficiently intrigued (and trusting, as nerds alone at Christmastime tend to be,) to venture up from Pasadena to join me. Knowing both my cooking and my propensities, they’d brought along a bottle of good champagne, and a selection of excellent peppery merlots. (Nerds tend to make fascinating drunks.)

I ended up serving the beast with a wild current jelly I’d put up the previous summer, grilled root vegetables from the garden, wilted winter greens with balsamic vinegar I’ve been reducing out in the shed, and wild rice with shallots and morels. It was extraordinary, baroque in the best sense of the word. Stuffed and satisfied, we ended the evening giddy with the delicious irony of the whole thing (and a nice Armagnac.). Roadkill had turned out to be the most extravagant dining experience any of us had had in ages, and certainly one of the most memorable.

magister artis ingeniique largitor venter

by ahansen