Hubby.... Hunter Gatherer

Hubby is in his element. The locals came a-calling for him; farmers with a long history in this area who seem to have accepted The Archers as part of the landscape. They took Hubby out shooting again. I wasn't over optimistic, last year he'd borrowed the big farmer's gun and had broken it. The collective shooters mended it with tape, I can't help thinking that mending a gun with tape just doesn't sound safe but out here in the crunchy-side there seem to be a shortage of health and safety. No bad thing really.

I've decided that a shooting widow is worse than a golf widow: Hubby made me a golf widow quite early in our life together. The old saying, 'if you can't beat 'em, join 'em' seemed awfully relevant then so I learned to play golf too and all was well in the world until the kids came along. It was then that I feared I might be widowed once again but fortunately hubby was too poor/exhausted/distracted to play much. With golf, you know they'll be gone most of the day, wearing plaid trousers, white shoes and occasionally a visor. Come to think of it, male golf clothes are pretty effeminate....... But a shooting widow is far worse because.... well because they are out there, flailing about with guns and mud and unpredictable animals. If they survive the weapons there is also the chance that they might come home bearing treasures for the female cave dweller to prepare. That's me....yuk.

Don't get me wrong, I want to cook and eat pheasant, venison, duck, partridge or pigeon, I just don't like the idea of preparing it. If I prepared it I probably wouldn't eat it. Too posh to pluck? That's me....

For the first time ever Hubby came home proudly bearing two brace of pheasant. Two cocks (pretty much!) and two hens. Wow-wee. The children were fascinated, the cats more so......

It seemed such a shame to have killed such beautiful birds but there I am with the double standards again...... I don't want to prepare them, don't want them murdered, but I do want to eat them...

Hubby knew the deal, he was kind, he offered to prep his kill and the 8yo eagerly volunteered her services. The 6yo was less forthcoming, but as I left the kitchen to iron enough clothes for all the inhabitants of Paxos to be well dressed for a year, (why, oh why do I let it build up so....) the boy was donning his apron too.

Within twenty minutes the boy had retreated. He had a dodgy look on his face......

'That is yucky,' he said. 'And the cats are eating the guts.' He got back to the job of murdering small digitised clone warriors on the DS.

But back in the kitchen, by following The Shooting Times online video instruction, Hubby and the 8yo made a very nice job of the birds.

She's clearly in her element..... cheffy school here we come?