Rabbitting on and on and an overdue eye test...

I don't like the taste of rabbit. It's no good sending me your best recipes, I've tried loads of them. I just don't like the taste of the meat, it always tastes a little off to me. Which is why I felt really cross with myself tonight when I found I'd defrosted, not a generous turkey leg but rather, a horrid rabbit. Bugger.

Once again I searched my cook books for something to make the dish edible - nothing. Then I surfed the net, I still couldn't find a recipe.

'Knickers,' thought I.

I decided to roast the sodding thing and if it was still revolting I'd give it to the cats.

Salt, pepper, rough chopped carrots to sit the carcass on and a glass of red wine. (One for me, one for 'im.) Then, because rabbit can be very dry.... [hideous, stinky, nasty, putrid......... Getta grip Lou!...] I wrapped the roasting dish in a foil duvet and stuffed it in the oven for 40 minutes.

I pretended to be eating with the sproglets and passed them over the two roasted legs which they attacked like cavemen. Hubby was to be home later. Then I sliced moist...... moist? moist?!! ....... breast for them too. There was a comforting silence. I was amazed. I decided to brave it.

'Flipping Henry, that's gorgeous!' I said, a taste-sensation in my mouth.

'What kind of meat is this Mummy?' asked the gourmand 8yo.

'Have a guess.'

'It's pheasant.'

'No.'

'Pig, goat, lamb, chicken?'

'No.'

'I think it's pheasant.'

'No, I already said no to pheasant.'

Then the 8yo had a little light-bulb moment; 'Rabbit?'

'Yes. Good girl.'

'Funny that,' she said. 'It looks like a pheasant.'

Clever Mummy, I made yucky rabbit taste like pheasant.

*

Hubby came home when the babies were in bed.

'I now like the taste of rabbit,' I announced.

'Excellent,' he said. ''Bout time.'

'You're having rabbit for dinner too.'

'Even more excellent.' [He's game for anything hubby ..... God I'm funny.]

I brought the remains of the roast to the table with a pile of hot, crisp french fries.....

'That's not rabbit you silly moo,' he said laughing. 'That's the bloody pheasant I shot the other day!...'

'Oh!'

*

....... Clearly I still don't like rabbit!

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?