Outdoor Men Can Cook

With our first snowfall of the season today, I was reminded this time of year is when I usually throw myself full-tilt into cookery. As my bulging waistline will attest, I’m fairly talented in both the food prep and excessive-consumption events, and I spend a considerable amount of time perfecting both skills. Most of my friends and family agree.

The Truth

I recently had friends over for a wild game dinner. Sometime later over empty plates and while discussing my minor culinary feats, the theory was put forth by a certain someone of the feminine gender that it’s fairly unusual for standard-issue guys to be good cooks. I mildly disagreed, asserting most of my buddies knew their way around the kitchen, but eventually I was forced to acquiesce to the common truism: men as a group are indeed fairly inept in the kitchen. However, I steadfastly maintain outdoor guys are the proverbial exception to the rule.

Thinking of my male buddies in general, most of them are hard-pressed to boil pasta without burning the water. However, my hunting and fishing pals can not only cook up a storm but they typically have a particular recipe for which they are noted. And no, we’re not talking about Lunchmeat Surprise or Fillet of Toast.

Thinking of my own retinue of friends and acquaintances, there are those who are noted for broiled dove breast, deep-fried salmon fillets, bear stew, fried mushrooms, elk chops, venison barbeque, roast quail and a myriad of other wild dishes. I’ve even got an acquaintance in Louisiana who is widely regarded for his delicious fried alligator, some of which was even legally taken. Personally speaking, my venison dinners draw no complaints and I’ve established a minor reputation as a jerky maker.

It’s pretty simple to understand why when you realize so much outdoor adventure is driven by eating as an underlying, if not primary, goal. Virtually every hunter, fisherman, mushroom hunter or sassafras digger ultimately wants to sample the gifts they have wrought from nature by their own hand. Whether the harvest happens to be a sack full of nice blackberries or a 1000-pound elk, the logical conclusion to a great day afield is to satisfy body and soul with a great wild food dinner.

And this is why my buddies and I have learned to cook.

Breaking the Rule

Of course, there are exceptions. I remember one infamous trip to the remotest regions of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area in Northern Minnesota, where it rained almost continuously. By the fifth day, we were surly and had grown tired of eating cold gruel, which washed down with lukewarm lake water spiced by assorted larvae.

Mother Nature was taking a breather from trying to kill us via clinical depression, so we took advantage of the lull. Towards dinnertime, we built our first roaring campfire in days, and I — the officially designated camp cook — began preparations for an evening feast. Meanwhile, the other members of the party busied themselves cleaning a nice mess of fish we caught.

Yet, there were figurative storm clouds gathering in camp. Just as I laid out the kitchen supplies, one of our group announced he had nominated himself chef du jour. He had made several other feints at cooking over the previous days, but I always rebuffed him. This time, he was so determined I thought it better just to let him get it out of his system and not start a war in the backcountry. However, as his official role in the group was “that guy,” the whole thing didn’t bode well.

Watching the proceedings from a discreet distance, I grew more and more concerned as the preparation progressed. As the situation grew increasingly disordered, I repeatedly offered to help. He snubbed my assistance despite the growing chorus of canoeists who implored me to take charge. Meanwhile, one member of our party who had assisted the hapless cook in cleaning our fish took me aside and whispered ominously, “Watch out for bones.”

The scene was grim: cold, starving men, eight hours travel from the nearest dirt road, watching their cook make a shambles of the first good batch of fish in days.

An hour later, dinner was served. I sat on a log to confront the half-cooked lump of gray flesh sitting forlornly in my bowl, spiced as it was with ashes, forest duff, mosquitoes and half-raw breading. At this point, I reached an important mental crossroads.

Using a calm, rational voice, I said very matter-of-factly — “Jim, if there are bones in this fish, I will be forced to kill you; right here, right now.”

The whole camp watched in foreboding as I lifted the first bite of walleye into my mouth.

It wasn’t bad, especially if you enjoy chomping a paste-covered pin cushion seasoned with dirt.

Fortunately, my threat was only a bluff. Instead of a canoe paddle, I merely grabbed a large flaming stick from the fire and chased Jim for a few miles into a leech-infested swamp until darkness fell. He escaped, not because he was faster but because I was compelled to stop twice and pick bone shards out of the roof of my mouth.

This incident, now being told in public for the first time, thus provides a perfect cautionary tale of why men should learn to be good cooks, especially if they’re outdoors enthusiasts.

After all, you can’t always count on having a swamp handy.

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