Real Men Eat Moose

My hubby, God bless his tummy, has just consumed three moose steaks. They were marinated first, only because I can't stand the smell of moose cooking on the stove. It smells like a combination of swamp grass, leeches and rotting cow.. "Get the picture". Hubby on the other hand is drawn to it like a cat to catnip. He gets his moose from a co-worker. As a family we are amazing barters. Computer work for moose, sounds like a fair trade to me. How about jewelry for services rendered, or chocolate. That never happens. Let's take a minute and examine this wild animal. It resembles a deer on steroids. It has a rack of antlers that not unlike our Christmas Tree is adorned with hanging green lichen smeared with vermin and parasites of every kind. They live in swamps and are constantly using the forest as a scratching post. In Newfoundland they are having quite the problem with these guys. 145 thousand of them roam free and last year alone caused 869 accidents on the highway with some fatalities. So the government is giving away 33 thousand licenses to kill.  I realize that the moose is as part of our Canadian culture as say maple syrup or the Toronto Maple Leafs. Up in our neck of the woods plenty of hunters still exist. They prepare all year for "Hunting Season". Spending hundreds of dollars. Remember Elmer Fudd? Camps are booked, ATV's oiled and lubed..  I won't even mention the cases of beer and recreational beverages that go along with this journey. Dressed out in their best camo. they grab their rifles and pretend their soldiers stealth fully hunting down the enemy (whose not very bright by the way). When I was first married, as part of my initiation into the right of being married to a true northerner we went a hunting for partridge. It was a rainy day and cold but I was warm in my youth and innocence.. .. There they came, an entire partridge family.. Keith, Danny, Laurie, Chris and Tracy. In shock I ran after them.. "Save yourselves,, run run" I yelled. Hubby never took me out hunting with him ever again. Every year the city puts on a wild game smorgasbord. Skunk fritters, breaded ermine, deep fried weasel,(which tastes an awful lot like chicken by the way) and chocolate covered fox tales.. The door prize is usually a Davy Crocket coon hat, or a lucky rabbit's foot. It seems that being part of the 21'st century eludes us at times.. Perhaps it's just that gene recessed from centuries past. You know the one that's dressed in plaid. Perhaps at one time we were all hunter gatherers. That hunting instinct is still strong. It's changed format a little. My brothers all had guns and target practice was a favorite game. My sons on the other hand are into virtual killings.. Duck Hunt allowed them to use a real gun. Then paint ball with MARKERS.. "Whose kidding Who".  We were smart parents. We let them play there video games, but had them turn off the sound and the blood. Tonight I'm cooking hamburgers. They came from a hormone injected cow. The smell is much more pleasant and sanitary though. I suppose the moral of this story is you can take the woods out of your husband, but you can't take your husband out of the woods. Or you can't have your bullwinkle and eat him too. Adieu my friends until the next time. ♥