Aside from the time spent developing creative excuses to turn down ice fishing invitations, this time of year is when I usually thrown myself into cookery.  As my bulging waistline will attest, I’m actually pretty talented in both the preparation and consumption events.  Most of my friends and family agree.

I recently invited a friend over for dinner.  Sometime later over empty plates and in regards to my minor culinary feats, the theory was put forth that it is fairly unusual for standard-issue guys to be good cooks.  I mildly disagreed, stating that most of my buddies knew their way around the kitchen pretty well.  That’s when I realized a previously unheralded truth: men as a group are indeed fairly inept in the cooking department but outdoor guys are the proverbial exception to the rule.

Thinking of my male buddies in general, most of them are indeed hard-pressed to boil pasta without burning the water.  However, my hunting and fishing pals can not only cook up a storm but they typically have a particular recipe for which they are noted.  And no, we’re not talking about Lunchmeat Surprise or Fillet of Toast.

Thinking of my own retinue of friends and acquaintances, there are those who are noted for broiled dove breast, deep-fried salmon fillets, bear stew, fried mushrooms, elk chops, venison barbeque, roast quail and a myriad of other dishes.  I’ve even got an acquaintance in Louisiana who is widely regarded for his delicious fried alligator, some of which was even legally taken.  Personally speaking, my venison dinners draw no complaints and I’ve established a minor reputation as a jerky maker.

It’s pretty simple, really because so much outdoor adventure is driven by eating as an underlying, if not primary, goal.  Virtually every hunter, fisherman, mushroom hunter or sassafras digger ultimately wants to sample the gifts they have wrought from nature by their own hand.  Whether the harvest happens to be a sackfull of nice blackberries or a 1000-pound elk, the logical conclusion to a great day afield is to satisfy body and soul with a great wild food dinner.

That’s why my buddies and I have learned to cook.

Of course there are exceptions.  I remember one infamous trip to the remotest regions of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area in Northern Minnesota where it rained almost continuously.  By the fifth day we were surly and had grown tired of eating cold gruel washed down with lukewarm lake water lemonade spiced with mosquito larvae.

Mother Nature had tired herself out trying to kill us via hypothermia, so while she rested up for another attempt there was an inadvertent afternoon free of rain.  Towards dinnertime we built our first roaring campfire and I, designated camp cook, began preparations for the evening feast as other members of the party cleaned a nice mess of fish.  Shortly before I began preparing the fish, one of the campers announced that he had nominated himself chef du jour. This didn’t bode well.

Watching the proceedings from a discreet distance, I grew more and more concerned as the preparation progressed.   As things grew increasingly disordered, I repeatedly offered to help.  My assistance was continuously rebuffed in spite of growing chorus of canoeists who implored for me to take charge.  Meanwhile, one member of our party who had assisted the hapless cook in cleaning our fish took me aside and whispered ominously, “watch out for bones.”

The scene was grim: cold, starving men, eight hours travel from the nearest dirt road, watching their cook make a shambles of a perfectly good batch of fish.

An hour later dinner was served.  I sat down on a log to confront the half-cooked lump of gray flesh sitting forlornly in my bowl, spiced as it was with ashes, forest duff, mosquitoes and half- raw breading.  At this point, I reached an important mental crossroads.

Using a calm, rational voice, I said very matter-of-factly, “Jim, if there are bones in this fish, I will be forced to kill you and everyone you’ve ever met.”

The whole camp watched in silence as I lifted the first bite of walleye into my mouth.

It wasn’t bad; especially if you enjoy chomping a paste-covered pincushion that tastes like week-old sushi.

Fortunately, my threat was only a bluff.  Instead I merely grabbed a large flaming stick from the fire and chased Jim for a few miles into a leech-infested swamp until darkness fell.  He escaped not because he was faster but only because twice I was compelled to stop and pick bone shards out of the roof of my mouth.

This incident, now being told in public for the first time, thus provides a perfect cautionary tale of why men should learn to be good cooks.

You can’t always count on having a swamp handy.

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