In response to Monday’s post about kitchen utensils, Wild Chef reader Country Road asked a pretty good question: Why are wooden spoons superior to metal or plastic? I have to admit, that gave me pause as I couldn’t answer it right away.
I mean, wood is just better.
Right?
You’d think I’d be opposed to wooden spoons since they were my mom’s primary form of discipline for my siblings and I. We often got a whack on the bottom when we deserved it. Still, my utensil jar today is filled with wooden spoons—not plastic or metal ones—so maybe I picked up a predilection for them through rear-end osmosis.
If I had to venture a guess, I’d say wooden spoons are favored because of their versatility. They go from cast-iron to non-stick to stainless pans without fear of scratching. They won’t change the taste of acidic foods like tomato sauce the way metal utensils are purported to. You can leave them in the pot and they won’t melt or get too hot to handle. They’re incredibly durable and, well, they just feel good in the hand.
Maybe it’s just a matter of growing older, but something interesting happened when I moved into my late grandparents’ house a few years ago. No matter what project I was tackling, whether in the kitchen or on the farm, the overriding idea that grandma and grandpa got by with what they had so I could, too, kept popping into my head. This way of thinking not only changed the way I worked (and ultimately my career), but also changed my shopping habits.
Sure, whenever I get a cooking-related catalog or visit a kitchen store in the big city I drool a bit over all the cool gear and gadgets for home cooks. Same goes for the Northern Tools catalog or the farm store. Every item holds the promise to make my life easier and raise my abilities to the next level. Most of the time, I resist the urge to buy one of everything, content with my uncluttered, if somewhat underequipped, kitchen. If Grandma Draper could make the world’s best lemon meringue pie in this kitchen, I could certainly scrape up something to eat here as well.
For this spicy venison stir-fry, inspired by a recipe from Eileen Clarke’s Slice of the Wild cookbook, I used a few tablespoons of Asian garlic chili sauce that is so potent it’s barely edible on its own. Mix it with a little soy sauce and broth to make a marinade and then add some to the broth/corn starch finishing sauce. The result is a sinus-clearing venison dish that’s sure to spice up your night.
I bet Jason Baalman’s mom never told him to stop playing with his food. The Colorado Springs artist creates some pretty amazing paintings out of food, cosmetics and other unusual mediums. Here he paints a whitetail buck out of barbeque sauce using rib bones (and his fingers) as brushes.
This week, Food Photo Friday features photos from Wild Chef reader Mike Duni of Freedom, Maine. Mike is a Registered Maine Master Guide who sometimes spends his summers working the kitchens of some of that state’s fine coastal restaurants. From the looks of his photos, Mike is not only an avid outdoorsman, but also a great cook, a skill he picked up from his Italian grandfather.
Pan-seared venison with garlic potato pancakes, caramelized onions and red wine sauce.
After an overly extended college career (you’d think in seven years, a guy would learn something), I decided to take a break from life and spend some time kicking around Ireland. During my time over there, I’m pretty sure I drank my weight in Guinness. I figured, on average, I sipped (okay, gulped) a minimum of five pints a night over the course of a month or so and one ill-advised night in Killarney had about 12.
Back stateside, and with my first real job, I was too poor to enjoy more than a pint at a time and then only on special occasions—like Saint Patrick’s Day. So there was no way I was going to waste the precious pints by cooking with them. Then one night, needing a little bit of liquid for a chunk of antelope rump I was roasting, I dumped in half the bottle of stout I was drinking at the time. (It must have been payday.)
Do a little research, and you’ll find there are no hard-and-fast rules for making a traditional Irish stew. Or, more accurately, there are a hundred different hard-and-fast rules as to what constitutes a traditional Irish stew. The one thing most agree on is the use of lamb or mutton, but from there the opinions diverge.
For this recipe, we’re going to throw out that one constant and replace it with venison, which was probably in the original recipe to begin with only to be replaced in modern times after sheep came to outnumber red deer on the Auld Sod.
As for the rest of the ingredients, I’ll say this is my authentic Irish stew, but like any recipe, it’s meant as a guide, not a rulebook. If your mom put carrots in her Irish stew, feel free to add them to yours. Same goes for flouring and/or browning the meat first, two steps I omit.
Digging around the freezer the other night, I came across a pack of mystery meat vaguely marked “Antelope.” Now, I love antelope. In fact it’s my favorite game meat, but this package was a little suspect, as I haven’t hunted the prairie speedsters for a couple of years. Since I’m too frugal to let anything go to waste, I trimmed away what little bit of freezer burn there was (thank you, vacuum sealer) and fried the steaks medium rare in a sizzling hot cast-iron pan. Deglazed with a bit of cheap red wine and served with a baked potato, the aged antelope steaks retained just enough of their wild flavor to spark the memory of a Wyoming hunt with close friends.
With St. Patrick’s day just around the corner, it’s time for me to defrost a few goose breasts and get them brining for my family’s annual feast. Corned goose makes a great wild alternative to store-bought beef and it’s easy to make. There are two methods you can follow: a dry rub that’s very similar to the Venison Pastrami recipe I posted a few weeks ago, or soaking the breasts in a brine before boiling them on March 17. Either way, it’s going to take about five to seven days, so you better get started if you’re planning to serve up corned goose with your cabbage this year.