My father always skinned the animals in the basement. He’d return home after a hunt with a bag casually slung over his shoulder like a woodland Santa bearing Christmas gifts. He’d stop in the garage to remove heavy leather boots that were mud caked with strands of grass stuck to the laces. In sock-covered feet, he descended 10 stairs to walk through the card room, past the laundry and into an unfinished space in back. The floor in there was concrete with a drain in the middle. It was a room that served as a storage area for our Christmas tree in spring and summer, a childhood rocking horse, a pen filled with straw to keep the dog warm in winter.
My father wielded a Marble “Sportsman” with a four-inch blade. He stored it in a leather sheath that hung from a hook beside the door. He cleaned his catch swiftly with efficient movements committed to memory from years of practice. When he bagged and dated the fresh meat, he stacked it in a rusty deep freeze that held beef from grandpa’s farm and strawberries for mom’s daiquiris. Depending on the time of year, the bags were filled with pheasant, quail, deer or turkey — only what we would eat. Dad was not a trophy hunter.
As a child, I found it amusing when restaurants touted pheasant and quail as a delicacies. We ate either — or both — practically every weekend. My father prepared the birds using a family recipe, dipping each piece of meat in milk, then dropping it into a gallon-sized plastic bag that had been half filled with flour, black pepper and an assortment of mysterious spices. He spread the coated pieces across a large iron skillet into a pool of sizzling butter. Dad would watch them begin to brown, making any needed adjustments, flipping them to ensure they cooked evenly.
The last time dad fried a batch of quail it was at the family farm. My cousins, sister and I gathered around the kitchen table. The sun was setting behind the barn. The Royals were on their way to winning the World Series. My father, dressed in baggy Levi’s and an old t-shirt, stood in front of the stove preparing our feast.
Today, three years after my father’s death, I can practically hear my family’s chatter. I can almost smell the quail frying. I can nearly taste the blend of spices that only my father knew. And I see my father smile.
Comments