Exchanging Pheasantries

One afternoon driving along a narrow village lane between fields of sheep to be counted, we spied an old family friend strolling towards us, swinging a tan hessian sack as he walked. We stopped, wound down the window, and caught up on life.
After a while, our friend held up the sack with a wry smile and said "You wouldn't like a brace of pheasant would you?" 

Now, this is an offer not to be taken lightly. Any bumpkin worth her salt knows what the acceptance of a brace of pheasant entails. I had had plans for the evening; nice, clean, comfortable plans. But we couldn't resist the thought of fresh game to be cooked, and for free! So we thanked our friend, stowed the bundle safely and were on our way.

I know many a millennial like me, who would squirm at the thought of plucking a dead bird to eat, but I believe that doing things like this is an important part of my relationship with food. It teaches me to appreciate the animal, to understand where it has come from, and to respect it in the way that I cook it. Unrecognisably processed meats in plastic packaging allow people to remain in denial of what they are doing, by distancing them from the reality of what life and death truly looks like.

The birds have beautiful plumage. I am vandalising a work of art. Every iridescent feather stuns, yet layered in their thousands they create even more perfect symphonies on the wing of the hen, and rioting colour on the breast of her partner. As I pluck the birds, which to be done well cannot be done gently, I conclude that the only way that I can atone for this destruction, is to create. They are not to be cooked irreverently. 

It has long been argued that cooking is indeed an art form. And so, back to the backbone of this long-neglected blog I must go. The only tome of a cookbook I took with me in my weight-restricted Easy-jet luggage for a year in Siena: Katie Caldesi's The Italian Cookery Course. The Italians have always been keen cacciatore (hunters), particularly when it comes to birds. Even small birds somewhat controversially. 

Lo and behold, a gorgeously seasonal recipe for a brace of pheasant:  'Fagiano in umido all'arancia con castagne e uva secca' credited to the Borella family from Parma. 

This translates as Pot roasted pheasant with orange, chestnuts and sultanas. The recipe begins leisurely, by briefly roasting some chestnuts in the Rayburn. The pheasants trussed up with bacon, bay and string and browned,I swap the white wine for cider - we're in Dorset not Le Borelle after all. It is a very simple recipe really, that just relies on a few good ingredients and time. Given an hour and a half in the steaming pot, the pheasant absorbs the flavours of the orange, chestnuts, wine and sultanas and emerges tender rather than tough. Although Katie advises that the sauce may need thickening with flour, mine comes out silkily sticky all by itself. 

Served up with some sweet bashed neeps leftover from Burn's Night and steamed kale, I let the pheasant do the talking. I loved the simple decadence of the recipe. It was sweet, tender, subtle and yet rich. Sometimes people drown their game in thick, heavy tomato based sauces which I think are designed in part to disguise any overly gamey flavours. This is not to dismiss the wonders of a warming winter ragù which I have been a huge fan of ever since I ate a wild boar version with thick ribbons of pappardelle and juniper berries at a restaurant in Siena. The difference that I enjoyed here however was the relative lightness of the dish, lifted by the citrus. Winter doesn't have to mean heavy, and the flavour of the birds were celebrated and complimented rather than used as a hidden base layer to something else. 

Where I will find my next inspiration remains to be seen... but pheasants are £3.99 at the local butcher's shop.