From Childhood Fear to Culinary Delight: My Journey to Loving Venison & A Sticky Garlic Ginger Stir Fry Recipe

An Unlikely Evolution: Embracing the Wild Game

As a child, I was certainly an anomaly among my peers. While many teenage girls enthusiastically embraced babysitting as a way to earn extra pocket money, I recoiled from it. My few forays into childcare were less about nurturing and more about accumulating a collection of cautionary tales that solidified my disinterest in children. It’s frankly a minor miracle that I ever chose to have my own.

One particular babysitting incident remains etched in my memory, a vivid testament to my overactive imagination. Tasked with caring for an infant, I found myself alone in a deeply rural home, its walls adorned with an array of mounted deer, elk, and moose heads. The sheer distance the parents had to travel for their dinner and movie meant I was in for a long evening. It wasn’t long before the fixed, glass eyes of those taxidermy creatures seemed to follow my every move, transforming into silent, watchful sentinels. Overwhelmed, I called my mother, who, bless her heart, didn’t dismiss my fears. Instead, she dispatched my aunt to the rescue. My aunt, with practical wisdom, helped me drape dishcloths over every pair of antlers, effectively blinding my perceived stalkers. I was fine after that, at least until I forgot to remove the towels before the couple returned. They never said a word, but I was never asked back. A small part of me was relieved, reinforcing a firm set of promises I made to myself: I would never eat deer, I would never hang a deer head on my wall, and I would certainly never marry a hunter.

The Culinary Transformation: From Aversion to Obsession

Life, however, has a peculiar way of challenging our most steadfast vows. Somewhere along the winding path, my culinary preferences performed a complete about-face. I discovered venison, and to my astonishment, it was utterly delicious. The lean, rich flavor, a stark contrast to my childhood apprehensions, sparked a new obsession. What began as a cautious curiosity soon blossomed into a full-fledged culinary pursuit.

Driven by this newfound passion, I subtly, then not-so-subtly, encouraged my husband to take up hunting a couple of years ago. He embarked on this endeavor with a mix of enthusiasm and apprehension. The allure of sustainably sourced, inexpensive meat appealed to him, but the less glamorous aspects, particularly the field dressing, gave him pause. He was a man literally torn between the romantic ideal of the hunt and the practical realities of harvesting game.

My own excitement, on the other hand, was boundless. To be honest, I was a touch manipulative, channeling a bit of Lady Macbeth in my pursuit of venison. I wanted it, and I wanted it desperately. While generous friends and neighbors occasionally shared their harvests with us, including one exceptionally kind hunting buddy who gifted us two whole deer the previous year, it simply wasn’t enough to satisfy my growing craving. I envisioned a freezer overflowing with venison, enough to last us through the seasons.

The Hunting Saga Begins: A Season of Anticipation

All year, I meticulously cultivated the romantic notion of hunting season. I sewed warm, felted wool boot inserts for his boots and knitted a cozy scarf to combat the chill of early mornings in the stand. I painted vivid mental pictures of hearty venison Salisbury steaks, served with mounds of creamy mashed potatoes and lakes of rich gravy. By the time hunting season finally opened, my husband was primed and ready. And I, for my part, was exceptionally hungry.

On day one, he returned at dusk, recounting how he had spotted a young four-pointer but had decided to pass, holding out for a larger buck. This news ignited my inner Lady Macbeth once more. I suspect my impassioned speech might have even included a paraphrase of, “But screw your courage to the sticking point and we’ll not fail!” I gently reminded him that his first buck likely wouldn’t be a trophy, but that any venison was good venison. A sigh escaped me. It wasn’t my proudest moment, but I delivered the message with an encouraging tone, or so I told myself. Moving on from that brief lapse in decorum…

Triumph in the Field: An Eight-Pointer for the Freezer

As the hunting season dwindled to its penultimate day, my husband decided to embark on one last hunting expedition. I had errands to run, so after a quick kiss for the mighty hunter as he strode into the back field, I left our eldest in charge and drove up the hill to visit our Amish friends. They often join me for trips to the larger grocery store, a forty-five-minute drive away, as they rely on an “English” neighbor or friend for transport. Ada and Anna quickly gathered their lists and hopped into my van, and we were off.

We had just stepped into the entrance of Wally World (otherwise known as Walmart) when my beloved’s cryptic text message buzzed my phone:

“8 pointer”

Our season had been so bereft of significant sightings that my immediate response reflected this lack of success:

“As in you saw one or shot one?”

The next text I received was a photograph—a magnificent, mature buck, lying in what could only be described as a remarkably relaxed pose. Super chill. As in, undeniably deceased.

I showed the picture to my friends, and there I stood, a complete fool, jumping up and down and shouting with unbridled excitement while my Amish companions clapped and cheered. I’m certain it was quite the spectacle in the bustling grocery store entryway. For a fleeting moment, I felt an almost irresistible urge to pass out cigars, much like expectant fathers in a 1950s neonatal waiting room.

Then came the giddy phone call from my husband, now undeniably hooked on the thrill of the hunt. “Hey! The gutting wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be! God bless YouTube! There are so many amazing videos on how to eviscerate deer!” This isn’t a phrase one typically hears in daily conversation, but to my red-meat-loving ears, it was pure music.

From Field to Fry Pan: Embracing the Process

Here, my earlier analogy to the Scottish Play finally falters. There was no wringing of hands, no desperate attempts to rub out imaginary spots. There was zero guilt. Only eager anticipation. I plunged in with my knife, helping to butcher the majestic animal. The only “perfume” I needed to sweeten my hands was the fragrant aroma of garlic, ginger, and soy sauce, a perfect concoction to accompany the beautiful venison sizzling in my frying pan.

For the record, I had some serious crow to eat alongside my delicious venison. That buck was, without a doubt, a trophy buck. He was enormous. And in less than a year, I will do something I swore I would never do. I will proudly hang an artistically mounted deer head on my wall. Ah, the unexpected, delicious circle of life.