Oh you dumb delicious bird.
We live on a steep hill. That's kind of an understatement. Our house is built into the side of Snow King Mountain, the town of Jackson below, the forested side of a mountain above. Its an interesting place to live. I spend a fair amount of time watching birds. Mostly ravens, magpies, flickers and finches and the occasional hawk and owl (usually heard not seen). But in early September a new bird started making the scene: A grouse (actually 2 to 4 of them!).
I don't know a lot about birds, other than that I enjoy watching their dramas and shenanigans unfold. I do know that the grouse is a notoriously stupid bird. Much like their chicken cousin, they seem to be content just walking around oblivious to the world around them. I was able to walk extremely close before they noticed my presence. (I did see it take a short flight to jump off the hill and perch in a tree). They were fun to watch, but I assumed they would not last long since our street is on the regular route of mid-Jackson's more independent dogs. I was sure it was only a mater of time until Buster the lovable Pine Drive mutt had a tasty meal to enjoy. Such is the nature of living in quasi civilization.
But little did I expect that the mutts eating that stupid bird would be us. Until this happened.
This was the crime scene on my sidewalk. A preliminary investigation determined that the bird had taken a tumble down the steep hill next to my house and landed head first on my sidewalk. The time of death was not exact but I am confident to have narrowed it down to a 15-20 minute window.
Look, I'm not judging. This scenario could easily play itself out with me someday. I once came very close to meeting my maker from electrocution while washing the dishes (true story). Another time I nearly squashed all of my innards taking a spectacular fall snowboarding down the bunny hill at Snow King. The reason? I wasn't paying any attention to my movements down an icy, icy hill because I was instead furiously pondering the delightful Spanish expression "de todos modos". I felt real empathy for this stupid, stupid bird, because I am in fact, a stupid, stupid bird, just one misstep away from oblivion myself. De todos modos indeed.
After the obligatory poking of the dead thing with a stick and our feet (I live in a world of boys). We returned to the civilized confines of our house, where the meat in the fridge was killed the way the good lord intended- at factory farms by industrial equipment. I shared the carnage on Facebook. As for the dead bird on the sidewalk I was hoping to see some awesome raptor swoop in and have a tasty feast while I got to watch my own version of the Nature Channel. Naturally, I knew that people eat these things. I live in Wyoming, even my liberal, socialist, eco-nazi leaning friends tend to get giddy at the prospect of bagging a moose or an elk and feasting on the gamey awesomeness all winter long. I respect that and rejoice when gifts of frozen wildlife end up in my hands (and then my belly). But this life is not for me. I buy my meat at the store, cleaned and not at all resembling the thing it was when it was amongst the living.
And then the world of social media egged me on to do this:
Ok, ok so there was a dead bird in my freezer. There are usually lots of dead birds in my freezer, or at least their dismembered body parts begging to be coated in delicious seasonings and served with a side of vegetables. But this one still had feathers, and a face, and really, really big claws. And now my inflated ego from showing off on Facebook had just gotten a little too real.
So, in my typical fashion, I figured out a way to pass the buck! Enter my brother Jeff. At the time of the bird's death Jeff was traveling towards Texas, en route to his home in Alaska, with a stop in Wyoming planned for the next week. All of that really makes sense, you can take my word on that. He'd mentioned he thought about raising chickens in Alaska and so naturally I egged him on to test his chicken farmer skills out on the dead bird I was now being expected to eat. Luckily, being made of the same genetic material, Jeff fell for my ploy and agreed to the challenge. Here was a chance to be manly men! (and manly girls!) To get our hands in it! To take an active part in the food we eat! I mean for Christ's sake- we're Mainers! Who live in Alaska and Wyoming respectively! This is what we do!!
Until this happened:
Somehow the bird had been squashed into its ziplock bag in such a way that it appeared to be sleeping peacefully. It was beautiful, it was tranquil. And now the reality of tearing it apart with bare-hands and eating it did not seem quite so romantic anymore.
But, where I failed to consider the law of inertia when snowboarding years ago, I was aware of it now. This thing was in motion, and it was staying in motion until it was done.
Luckily my intrepid young Sullivan was into it, that helped. He seemed pretty eager to destroy this bird (after he played with it for a while of course). He even begged to be the one to cut its head off, wanting to see its brains. (more on that in a bit).
Sully plays with his food
So the time had come. After consulting the YouTube and considering the advice of friends we had a strategy. Jeff went for it. His bravery will go down as the stuff of legend. Also, the innards of a sage grouse smell awful. We should all be congratulated for not barfing all over the place.
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| NO SURRENDER |
And here, for the brave amongst you, is the video of what happens
when you tear a grouse apart with your bare hands.
There's not a ton of meat on this thing, so Jeff had the great idea to go for an appetizer. So folks, we present Wild Organic Wyoming Sage Grouse Jalapeno poppers wrapped in turkey bacon.
The verdict? It was delicious It tasted like liver and chicken combined. And the best part? None of us died or suffered any digestive discomfort at all. Would I do this again? Perhaps, but I might need Jeff to come back to do the dirty work. Perhaps I could entice him with his own dedicated box of Franzia Chardonnay.
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| Wash away the carnage El Jefe, you deserve it! |
Now, back to my darling, sweet Sully who turned into an adventurous eater and possible future hunter and/or mortician. Those of you with pacemakers or a weak stomach should just go ahead and quit reading now.
So Sully really wanted to cut the head off the dead bird with scissors. And I let him, why not? Its more educational than an episode of Sponge Bob and it seemed to make him happy (as indicated by the extremely loud hooting and hollering this endeavor created). The head properly severed, Sully was still not satisfied. He wanted to see the brain. He's in Kindergarten, he's still years away from dissecting helpless animals in school, so I figured why not. But of course, I don't want Sully handling the severed head and trying to navigate the sharp kitchen shears through the bird skull on his own, because you know, THAT'S what seemed crazy to me. So it became my turn to do some damage to this thing.
Full of bravado and adrenaline with Sully bouncing with excitement, I went for it. Holding the head with tongs, I cut into the birds skull with a crunch. As I did this, the damn thing's eye popped open, looking moist and alive, as if to say "really dude? Have I not been through enough?" After shrieking and running out of the room, I collected myself and finished the job. All in the name of science of course. So folks, if you've made it this far, and you're still willing to disgust yourself with my antics, I am pleased to present to you: Bird Brain: a crude, crude cross section that Mike would like to point out greatly resembles some of JFK's autopsy photos.
You're welcome.
