Tuesday, October 6, 2009
My venison marinade has olive oil, molasses, honey, garlic, onion, soy sauce, tobasca, basil, oregano, salt, lots of pepper and then some and love. I whisk it up like an alchemical brew and measure portions of other stuff that I add as I get inspired. The cat flies about the kitchen on her little broom, shrilly screeching, "eye of neut, eye of neut". But I never put eye of neut in my venison marinade and she knows that.
I cut up slices of venison ensuring only the best meat in the same 1/8 to 1/4 inch strips. I put the meat in the marinade and then covering the large bowl with saran wrap place it in the vegetable space of the refrigerator.
Overnight and the whole next day this experience happened in my fridge while I first slept and then spent the day at work. In the evening I rushed home to fire up the Big Chief electric smoker on my high rise deck in West End Vancouver. I filled the chip pan with alder then laid out each morsel of meat on the rack above. I plugged in that Big Chief and smoke and aroma began to happen almost instantly. I was barbecuing venison steaks meanwhile.
Multi cultural West End Vancouver began to experience a Canadian culinary sensual extravaganza. Aboriginal people's noses went up instantly as they began to search the city for the source of the feast of the Creator. Scots, Russians, Europeans, Northern Chinese, Africans, and all the others whose fathers had hunted deer and raised their children on the succulent experience of smoked meat salivated en mass.
Meanwhile my neighbour above me not one to appreciate the aroma of alder and venison smoke pointed a garden hose down at my deck and tried to flood me out. At first I thought it was raining but when I went out to get my steaks sure enough there was the garden hose nozzle conspicuously aimed over the side of the above deck. Poor aim. The smoking process continued overnight with very little smoke but the richest aroma. I added more alder a half dozen times and the garden hose shut off after an hour or so of token resistance. Her DNA will never be the same and she has given up vegetarianism and applied for a hunting license on line.
This morning I again had a taste of heaven. Unbelievable! But again the battle began. I want to share the experience. I want to watch another human's lips smack and eyes roll back in venison jerky rapture but I don't want to share my hoard. I know it's downright sinful and I should give it all to the church to save me from pride of possession. It's all I can do to resist devouring the whole bowl.
Meanwhile I wouldn't be surprised if my neighbour approached me offering sex for venison. It wouldn't be the first time. My aboriginal friends get that all the time when they smoke up salmon. I'd refuse of course. Its a sacred not secular experience.