October 2011 NewsletterJim Casada
Web site:
www.jimcasadaoutdoors.com
Chestnuts carried with them poignant memories for both my father and grandfather. They had witnessed the demise of the monarch of Appalachian forests, the American chestnut, in the mid- and late 1920s, and Grandpa Joe in particular was mightily attached to that vanished cornerstone of mountain life. After all, the nuts provided cash money when sold for transport to cities, where vendors roasted them to sell on street corners. They were a favored mast for fattening free-ranging hogs and left an old mountain porker sho’ ‘nuff prime just as hog-killing time rolled around. The trees furnished shingles for roofs, rails for fences, siding for barns, and were harvested as “acid wood” for use by tanneries. In short, they were a staff of life. The luscious nuts also provided the underlying basis for one of my Dad’s favorite stories, although it was a tale he never shared until he was in his nineties and some of the uptight and upright propriety which had been an integral part of his character vanished in the aftermath of a mild stroke (or maybe he thought his children were finally old enough to hear adult stories which were a bit off color). The tale focused on a young fellow he knew who was seriously courting a mountain lass. One day a friend teasingly asked the girl’s father what he thought about the courtship. “Well,” the staunch mountain man drawled in his laconic fashion, “I reckon that boy’s all right. Anyhow he sits around our house, eats chestnuts, and farts just like he is one of the family.” The gas-producing side effects of chestnuts never crossed my mind as I headed for the October woods, because I was about as single-minded a squirrel hunter as was possible. I liked to envision myself as a modern reincarnation of the early backwoodsmen, known as the Overmountain Boys, who turned the tide against the British at the battles of Kings Mountain and Cowpens in the American Revolution. They were, to a man, sharpshooting squirrel hunters. So too was the great hero of World War I, Sgt. Alvin York, a simple Tennessee country boy and squirrel hunter who knew how to shoot and understood stealth. You can rest assured that by the time I was allowed to go hunting alone I was intimately familiar with the lives of these American men at arms. More to the point, those endless and enchanting hours in the squirrel woods gave me a solid grounding in woodscraft which I greatly fear many of today’s youngsters miss. They begin their hunting experiences with deer or turkeys and skip the grand educational opportunities afforded by small game. As a result, they don’t have any real ladder of achievement to climb, no new worlds to conquer, no special experiences of which to dream. Because they start at the top level of the most common and widespread American hunting opportunities, they never rejoice in the sense of accomplishment which comes with well-placed .22 shots on squirrels or a successful day afield with beagles hunting cottontails. Yet it was in the solitude of the squirrel woods that I found my grounding. I’ve always been something of a misanthrope, or as a friend once put it in pithy fashion, “I enjoy the company of my best friend, myself.” To be sure, there are sporting experiences, such as a fine dove shoot, which for me provide pure joy, and the camaraderie of a turkey camp with its tales of woe and wonder has real appeal. Likewise, there are two or three fellow fly fishermen in my circle of friends with whom I revel in being astream, and a deer camp where there’s a fine cook and good fellows has much to recommend it. In the final analysis though, my long-suffering wife was unquestionably on to something when she once stated, in a moment of doubtlessly well-deserved frustration: “When you die, your tombstone should read ‘Jim Casada hated people.’” On that particular occasion I didn’t help matters much by replying, obviously without thinking, to the effect that she had forgotten I was to be cremated and my ashes scattered on some favorite trout streams. Accordingly, as I pointed out to her, there would be no tombstone. That put me in the dog house for a longer time period, but you get the picture. I’m perfectly content, especially when hunting, to be alone. Hunting squirrels by myself as a boy taught me plenty of lessons which have application far beyond dealing with bushytails. Early on I learned that when the leaves were still on the trees and mast had only begun to fall, the ability to find and read sign was critical to success. Added to that were lessons learned in terms of patience and persistence, and I knew from the outset that picking my shots was of paramount importance. After all, I had to answer to my elders in no uncertain terms when it came to missed shots (and Dad always asked), not to mention the fact that shotgun shells ran to eight cents each (you could lay down a dollar and get a baker’s dozen, which meant a four-cent reward for making such a big purchase) while .22 cartridges were a penny apiece. That may not seem like much money in today’s world, but in my boyhood it was significant. So much so that the only time I ever had a full box of shotgun shells or .22 cartridges was when I received them as gifts at Christmas. Nor did the wonders of woodscraft as taught in the squirrel woods end with finding and interpreting sign, “waitin’ ‘em out,” and straight shooting. Stealth was of great importance, whether it meant sneaking up of a tree still holding its leaves where nut hulls were raining down to the ground or the much more difficult demands of getting within range of a squirrel by sneaking through the winter woods after a spate of rain had left the forest floor damp. Then there was learning to recognize likely den trees, being able to discern whether or not a nest was newly made and likely in use, picking out a spot on a limb high up in a tree which didn’t look quite right, and much more. Suffice it to say that a graduate of the school of squirrel hunting has taken a giant stride towards becoming a fine woodsman, and that in turn puts one on the right path to being a skilled hunter. Simply stated, I know of no finer way to mold and make a sportsman. That is why, as the eternal cycle of the seasons brings another October, with the earth preparing for another long nap beneath the golden glow of a hunter’s moon, my thoughts wander back to steep ridges adorned by oaks and hickories, to deep hollows where ancient black walnuts mark old home places, and to squirrels. That was a time of simpler days and simpler ways, and the golden glory of the month reminds me that October was always grand. I can only hope that for at least the occasional youngster, maybe one prone to dream amidst the delights of the natural world as I have always been, that such is still the case. For me, it always will be. Since squirrel hunting forms the central focus of this month’s newsletter, it seems only right to include some recipes for what is, properly prepared, a delectable meat. I might also add that late in her life, when her health was failing and she was in a nursing home, my maternal grandmother reached a point where she pretty much refused to eat anything. Grandma Nettie, a hard-headed soul and in truth in some ways a difficult woman, had always been something of a character. She racked up speeding tickets on a regular basis when she was well into her seventies and was widely known as “a squirrel-huntin’ fool” in an era when women just didn’t hunt. In fact, somewhere in the grand disarray which passes for my office, I have a picture of her, wearing an old gingham dress which reaches to the ground, proudly holding a .22 rifle and a brace of squirrels. Visiting her and hearing her reminisce about her squirrel hunting days gave me an inspiration for dealing with her lack of appetite. I asked if she might be interested in some squirrel, biscuits, and gravy, and with a smile she acknowledged “I reckon I would.” It was squirrel season and I managed to kill a mess that very afternoon. Mom cooked them up her favorite way (see Anna Lou’s Squirrel below), made gravy and cathead biscuits, and then took the extra step of tearing the meat from the youngest and most tender of the squirrels into small pieces. Grandma ate a whole squirrel, two biscuits, and enough gravy for a hard-working man in a logging camp. From then until the day she died you could get her to perk right up, attitude- and appetite-wise, with a fine mess of squirrel and gravy. ANNA LOU’S SQUIRREL2 squirrels, dressed Place dressed squirrel in a large saucepan. Cover with cold water, add soda and heat to boiling. Remove from heat and rinse squirrel well under cold running water (rub to remove all soda). Return to pan and cover with fresh water. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer until tender. Place squirrel in baking dish, dot with butter, and bake at 350 degrees until browned and crusty. Use the broth from cooking the squirrel to make gravy. It should be noted that this recipe works equally well with rabbit. FRIED SQUIRREL1 cup flour Mix flour, salt and pepper and place in a paper or plastic bag. Beat egg well and place in a shallow dish. Drop squirrel pieces in flour bag, shake to cover well, remove squirrel, and dip in egg mixture. Return squirrel to flour bag and shake to coat well. Repeat with all the squirrel pieces. Heat canola oil in skillet and quickly brown squirrel. Black browned squirrel in a roasting pan or baking dish and bake, uncovered, at 250 degrees for approximately 1 ½ hours or until the meat is tender. SMOTHERED SQUIRREL2 squirrels, quartered Sauté flour-coated squirrel in butter until it is browned. Cover squirrel with onion slices and sprinkle with salt and paprika. Pour sour cream over the squirrel. Cover and simmer for an hour or until the meat is tender. Thank you for subscribing to the
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