Cory’s conscience

Having received a message from my father today that we haven’t blogged or bothered to call recently, I felt compelled to do so. We are in the midst of autumn here. That means cool weather - nothing like home - but in the 50’s and without central heating! In addition, autumn means rain and even hail, and we have had a lot of it recently. Speaking of hail, a few weeks back there was so much hail it covered the streets, causing cars to get stuck and kids to go out and make “hailmen” in the yard (no joke). The weather is really spotty and unpredictable. The hail storm came and went in a matter of an hour. So quickly, in fact that Erin didn’t believe me when I called to tell her.

Fortunately the weather doesn’t stop the locals from getting out and enjoying the great outdoors. I was invited to go shooting clay pigeons with a group of guys from work. I have never been too accurate with the shotgun, but I thought what the heck. So we headed about 45 minutes south of Tauranga to a beautiful estate owned by a well-off Austrian businessman who built it so he could have a place to hunt once a year. We weren’t allowed into the mansion, but the grounds were spectacular with a mixture of manicured beds and native bush. The clay pigeon course was interwoven through the native bush with hidden traps that launched the fluorescent discs at what seemed like light speed. In addition to the flying pigeons, there were also rolling discs (i.e. rabbits) that bounced their way along the turf and were particularly difficult to nail. We all carried 12 gauge over-and-under shotguns (2 shots each) and had a contest to see who could get the most targets. Bryce would have been in heaven. I, on the other hand, am not the marksman my brother is. Needless to say, a great deal of lead now lies in the bark and dirt of that estate, having missed the little round target. I managed to get second to last out of seven people so I wasn’t too upset having not touched a gun in 5-6 years.

The most impressive part of the compound was the number of pheasants roaming the estate – in the order of hundreds. The day before we arrived, they had a huge pheasant hunt for some European tourists. Being tourists, however, they were not able to take the birds back with them. When we arrived, the man running the trap shooting offered up the birds to one of my bosses who accepted – all 45 of them. As I stepped out of my boss’ truck I was told I had to take some pheasant home, so I reluctantly took a pair of dead pheasants, strung together by a rope around their necks. It is not that I am against hunting, on the contrary, I was glad to see that all that pheasant wasn’t going to go to waste. What concerned me more was what was Erin was going to say as I opened the door with two dead birds in my hand. As I rode up the elevator to our apartment, I dreaded the thought of someone getting on the lift and me having to explain myself. Fortunately that didn’t happen, but then I was left standing at our front door picturing the look on Erin’s face. As I walked in I hollered, “Erin, I have a surprise for you.” She loves surprises. She turned around and the smile immediately shifted to a look of bewilderment, and she asked, “Are those dead birds?” This was followed shortly by, “What are you going to do with those?”, and then “We don’t even own a sharp knife!”

These were all valid comments, and as I thought about things a little more, I realized I didn’t have much of an answer. What was I going to do with those birds? Would the semi-sharp glorified steak knife we have in the drawer equate to the trusty scalpel? Alas I retreated to the balcony with knife in hand, prepared to do . . . something.
My gun-toting colleagues had suggested plucking the pheasant to save the skin for roasting purposes. So I donned my surgical latex gloves and got to plucking. It was a matter of seconds before I realized that was a crazy idea. Not only were my hands covered in feathers, but I was making a bloody mess of this bird. I soon reverted to the surgeon within me, brandishing the glorified steak knife. Soon that bird was like the Thanksgiving turkey, and I was dishing out breast meat. The carcasses were handily discarded down the garbage chute. Having extracted the breast meat, I was now confronted with the culinary dilemma of how to prepare this wild game. I promptly emailed my brother who was quick to provide a number of tried and true pheasant recipes as well as some advice for cleaning the birds next time I happen to shoot a few. (Unlikely to happen - sorry, Bryce!)