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exotic visitor

There's a pheasant in next door's garden.


( 12 worms — Feed the birds )
1st Mar, 2006 08:32 (UTC)
Honey Baked Pheasant

Serves: 4
Legs and breast of 1 pheasant, skinned
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup chopped parsley
2 cups honey
1 cup butter
salt and pepper to taste
Fillet breast and bone the thighs. Cut into approx. same thickness pieces. Season the flour with salt and pepper and dredge the pheasant. Dust pheasant pieces with onion powder. Melt 3/4 cup butter in skillet over medium heat. Brown pheasant pieces and place in a lightly oiled 9x13 glass casserole. Sprinkle with parsley. Add honey and 1/4 cup butter to the skillet. Mix well until butter is melted, then pour over the pheasant (should come about halfway up on the pheasant pieces). Seal the baking dish with aluminum foil and bake 30 minutes at 325 degrees.
1st Mar, 2006 09:51 (UTC)
Mm, pheasant.
You strike me as someone who'd appreciate this recipe though!
1st Mar, 2006 10:31 (UTC)
hmm, Jennifer's got a Gin n'It recipe, too. I never have enough gin to waste it on cooking, though.
1st Mar, 2006 08:49 (UTC)
1st Mar, 2006 09:02 (UTC)
Or as those of us who spend several weeks per year in rural Yorkshire call them, pre-Roadkill. (Thankfully, I've only scored one so far.)
1st Mar, 2006 10:26 (UTC)
Urban hunt time!
1st Mar, 2006 10:33 (UTC)
tsk, you lot
You said you would kill it this morning.
Do not kill it. It startles me still,
The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing

Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill.
It is something to own a pheasant,
Or just to be visited at all.

I am not mystical: it isn't
As if I thought it had a spirit.
It is simply in its element.

That gives it a kingliness, a right.
The print of its big foot last winter,
The trail-track, on the snow in our court

The wonder of it, in that pallor,
Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling.
Is it its rareness, then? It is rare.

But a dozen would be worth having,
A hundred, on that hill-green and red,
Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing!

It is such a good shape, so vivid.
It's a little cornucopia.
It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud,

Settles in the elm, and is easy.
It was sunning in the narcissi.
I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.
1st Mar, 2006 12:53 (UTC)
Re: tsk, you lot
Ha, yes, the big feet...
Veh veh good; very DH Lawrence.
1st Mar, 2006 13:34 (UTC)
It's one where the credit spoils it, a little: once you know that it's a poem written by Sylvia Plath to her husband Ted Hughes (who kept threatening to shoot all the wildlife that lived around their house) it seems less lovely and much more sad.
1st Mar, 2006 17:07 (UTC)
Re: hmmm-oh
Ummm, see what you mean...
Strange, that Ted Hughes; another one of these people who seem to admire and relate to wildlife on one hand, yet revel in blowing critters away on the other. Illogical...
1st Mar, 2006 17:58 (UTC)
Re: hmmm-oh
Like Prince Charles! 1960s, innit. Ted Hughes having the excuse that he was actually liking / killing things in the '60s, as opposed to the '00s.
1st Mar, 2006 16:47 (UTC)
Life is good.
( 12 worms — Feed the birds )