Me and Jerry Lee

I’m a killer.

Two weeks ago I killed two brothers.  They looked uncannily alike.  Even for squirrels.
Right now their pelts are curing and their tails are drying and their bodies are frozen awaiting the company of a few more of their kin for a date with a Crock-Pot.
 
Suburban East Coast Jewish kids don’t grow up killing animals for food.  It’s not kosher. Literally.  Kosher animals have to be slaughtered by hand in a very specific manner.  A manner which precludes the harvest of wild game and ergo mandates agriculturalism.  Remember Esau? Kosher laws evolved not just as set of guiding principles, but as a defining line separating monotheists from idolaters, deists from animists, and pastoralists from hunter/gatherers.  It was an early beaurocracy.

Nonetheless, I come to hunting in no small part from a culinary capacity.  Wild birds are delicious.  Rabbit is my favorite game so far.  We make a lot of good jerky as a pantry staple and I’d like to use venison.  And, I’ll not downplay the sense of excitement I get while out in the field.  But, there is a bittersweet side too.  The death of an animal at your own hands is not in itself fun.  The cleaning of the animal is work, and discarding the fur or feathers and most viscera makes me feel wasteful.  Not to mention that my pantries are already plentiful; I certainly can’t claim any need for this animal’s life. So I’ve initiated some personal limits.  Both kashruth and the cultures of most hunter/gatherers have taboos, and now I have some of my own.  This is a wise practice for it is an exercise in restraint and personal boundaries.  It limits bloodthirst.

Here are mine: no crows or ravens (yes, legal), no sandhill cranes (not legal yet), no photos.