The Chronicles of Major Peabody: The Questionable Adventures of a Wily Spendthrift, a Politically Incorrect Curmudgeon, an Unprincipled Wagerer and an Obsessive Bird Hunter. Galen Winter
he smiled again and arose from behind his desk. It was his way of suggesting the interview was over and that I might want to leave his office. I left his office.
Since that date, Major Nathaniel Peabody and I have been joined at the hip – the place where he keeps his usually empty wallet. On the first day of every one of the following months, I have been required to personally deliver the Major’s Trust remittances. I believe Peabody purposely arranges to be hunting on the first day of nearly every month. I believe he purposely arranges to be hunting in some God forsaken place like the Argentine Patagonia or the Canadian wilderness or the Nicaraguan out-back or Arkansas.
I am a city boy. Hunting dogs do not like me. I am afraid of them and they bark at me. I do not like the woods or the animals that live in them. I am afraid of wild bears and I am afraid of firearms. The thought of encountering a rattlesnake or a bear in the woods fills me with a panic terror and I am grateful for the strength of the sphincter muscles in my lower abdomen.
I became a lawyer to raise my standard of living. I expected to develop the life style of people who live in upper class suburbs, where they sometimes dress for dinner and can enjoy the advantages of urban culture. I didn’t expect to find myself spending at least one day a month in the company of men dressed in old wool shirts or trying to sleep in a cabin smelling of wood smoke or freezing inside a tent, protected from midnight marauding, vicious animals by nothing more than a thin sheet of plastic.
I didn’t expect to find myself saddled with the job of personally delivering the Major’s Spendthrift Trust remittances on the first day of every month, regardless of the uncivilized bear or snake infested part of the world in which he might decide to find himself.
Mr. Robertson Smythe thinks it’s funny.
Woodcock - 1
After giving me directions to get from the airport to the camp and reminding me (unnecessarily) that delivery of his Spendthrift Trust remittance was due in two days, Major Nathaniel Peabody left for northern Maine where he joined others intent upon pursuing the Ruffed Grouse. I arrived in the camp in the late afternoon of the last day of the month and found him and Doctor Carmichael seated at the cabin’s kitchen/dining/poker table. I had barely enough time to unpack and, with some alarm, view the height and condition of the upper bunk that I would occupy when a third hunter entered the cabin.
I didn’t know this man, but it was clear that he had only recently been infected with the bird hunting malady. His hunting gear was all brand new. He hadn’t even removed the size identification tag stapled to the back of his still factory clean L. L. Bean hunting jacket. We all watched as the young man opened his game pouch and, obviously proud of his achievement, withdrew a handful of dead birds with long pointed beaks.
“Just look at these Woodcock,” he proudly ordered. “I got four of them.”
The reaction from Peabody and Carmichael was not what he expected. They mumbled “Oh dear” and “Good Heavens”. Then they were silent and avoided looking directly into the hunter’s eyes.
Confused, the young man said “I understand they are good to eat.” There was no response. “They are good to eat, aren’t they?” he asked. Again, there was no response. He broke the silence with another question. “How would you cook them?” Clearly, the young man was in need of advice. It was Doctor Carmichael who undertook the task.
“Although they were often cooked with feathers attached in 17th century England,” the doctor began, “some of that century’s recipes for the preparation of Woodcock called for plucking, but not drawing the bird.”
“Drawing?” the young man asked.
“Eviscerating,” Carmichael answered.
“Eviscerating?” the young man asked.
“Gutting,” Carmichael answered.
“Oh,” the young man said and his eyes opened a bit wider. The possibility of cooking a bird without removing its feathers and internal organs had never occurred to him. Apparently he did not consider that prospect to be a happy one.
“After parboiling it with salt, pepper and ginger,” the doctor continued, “the Woodcock would be baked.”
“Guts and all?” the young man questioned, straightening up and wrinkling his noise as if he had experienced a close encounter with a vat of over-ripe Limburger cheese.
“Yes. The intestines and all other internal organs remained in their usual places,” Doctor Carmichael confirmed, “but the bird was first larded and covered with sweet herbs.” It was evident the addition of lard and sweet herbs was not enough to induce the young man to give serious thought to re-creating the 17th century method of baking Woodcock.
Doctor Carmichael disregarded his expression. “When you eat a woodcock prepared in accordance with that ancient recipe, …” the doctor paused for a moment and decided not to say “guts”. Instead he said: “…innards and all, don’t eat the craw and don’t look for a gizzard. The Woodcock doesn’t have one. Feeding mostly on soft earthworms and the like,” he continued, “the bird doesn’t seem to need one.”
“That’s repulsive,” the young man said. “Cooking a bird, feathers and all and then eating it when its intestines are filled with angleworms that haven’t even been ground up by a gizzard! Surely, no one eats them that way today.”
“In my humble opinion,” Doctor Carmichael agreed, “anyone with a palate more delicate than that of a hungry hyena would turn and run if offered such a dish. The eating of un-eviscerated Woodcock is not tolerated in any civilized country. In France, however, where the old recipe, with minor variations, is still popular, I am told un-gutted Woodcock are considered to be a gourmet delight. The French are capable of all sorts of outrages.”
“There have to be better ways to bake Woodcock,” the young man persisted.
“There are, of course, many modern recipes that use only the breasts of Woodcock,” Carmichael admitted. The young man brightened up perceptibly. “But,” the doctor warned, “they call for such additions as wine, chicken soup, onion, garlic, dill, celery seed and the like. The purpose of adding such strong condiment, I am sure, is to remove the terribly strong liverish taste of the bird. However, I am unable to find a single recipe in which that objective has been achieved. If you insist on experimenting, I can recommend only one recipe.”
“And that one is…?” the young man asked.
“To improve the taste of Woodcock, soak them in kerosene for three days and then throw them away,” the doctor’s answered. The young man looked confused. “You look confused,” Carmichael said. “Let me explain it this way. You appear to be impressed by the intelligence of our hunting dogs?” It was a question, not a statement, and the young man vigorously nodded his head.
“You certainly must have noticed none of our dogs will retrieve a dead Woodcock. Dogs will hunt them and point them and find their highly camouflaged corpses hidden in the forest leaves, but very, very few of them will put a dead Woodcock in its mouth. Are you as smart as a hunting dog?”
“If they taste so bad, why do you shoot them?” the young man asked.
“A legitimate question, my boy,” Carmichael said. “There are good reasons for such behavior. First, wing shooting that zigzag flyer is a challenge. I’m sure Dickens had the Woodcock in mind when he named one of his Oliver Twist characters ‘the Artful Dodger’. Second, the dog has worked hard. His displays of joy and enthusiasm at successfully exposing the Woodcocks’ hiding places are always obvious. If you don’t put the bird in your game pouch, you will be showing contempt for the animal’s excellent work. A gentleman will never disappoint a good bird dog.
“Of course, as soon as the dog returns to the hunt, your companions will expect you to heave the Woodcock as far into the bush as possible. I am told the hunters of Upper Michigan practice throwing facsimile Woodcock as part of their preparation for the autumnal