Well, I found a pheasant...and ate it.

This evening I pulled into my drive, just to the right of the highway, and noticed something lying near the mailbox.  I parked and went over to inspect, and it turned out to be a pheasant that had literally just been clipped by a passing vehicle.  He was so recently hit that his entire body was warm and his eyes were still open.  I was surprised, and immediately thought that I would like to learn to dress a bird and collect some feathers along the way.  

 Perfectly intact pheasant

 Oh copper, how gorgeous.

I began gently pulling feathers, hesitant and worried that the bird may still be alive.  Some people are naturals at an activity such as this; they were raised hunting and it is only an action that follows the hunt.  But I was not raised as a hunter, more of an explorer.  However, I was always the child that loved to see how things worked, taking things apart just to see how they worked- I remember looking forward to the mandatory frog dissection in 10th grade biology class.  But actually taking an animal apart from its natural state, and processing it into a meat product took some effort and resolve.  

 

Look at these colors!

I pressed forward, continuing my gentle movements, primarily out of caution and a little because I was still finding it difficult to separate the meat aspect from that of the recently living and flying bird.  I stripped the pheasant of his once robust feathers, removing the dramatic outer layer, the gorgeous and more subtle middle layer, and the soft, tiny under feathers. 

 This is one of the most gorgeously plumed birds there ever were.

As the bird began to display the type of skin consumers of poultry consider to be similar to chicken skin, and upon removing the head, the task became effortless.  My housemate, Dallas, walked into the room as I was removing the wings and feet, and was surprised at the sight.  He listened to the brief story of the pheasant, and then instructed me on removing the entrails and gullet, which we opened to reveal freshly eaten lentils and rocks...definitely a well-fed pheasant.  He was impressed at the work put in to processing one pheasant, which only feed about two people.

Dallas offered to cook up the bird, rotisserie style, after a brief brining process.  My Dad called at that time, asking how the start of my new semester was going.  All is good, I relayed, and then informed him of the pheasant.  "I don't technically consider this bird roadkill, Dad, his eyes were open when I found him.  But does this make me a Redneck?"  "Honey, he replied, you were a Redneck long before this."