I know weines. The original Wahoo, NE, weiners were cherished and shipped all over the world. The casings were a thin gut and tender. The meat was seasoned just right. They were great in a bun, sliced and fried with potatoes, chopped into scrambled eggs and eaten cold. When the owners sold out, the new casings were tough, and the meat recipe wasn't the same.
Preparing for Mississippi's hunting season, I scoured the Kroeger hotdog section and was surprised to find Oscar Mayer's "SELECTS ANGUS BUN LENGTH SMOKED UNCURED ANGUS BEEF FRANKS". We're talking "PREMIUM ANGUS". A high quality of beef makes me think they want us to have the World's Best Hotdog! Get this: THERE ARE NO NITRATES OR NITRITES, except those occurring naturally in celery juice. There are NO ARTIFICIAL FLAVORS, COLORS, FILLERS OR BY-PRODUCTS. This is The Holy Grail of Hotdogs!
During hunting season, our four-foot wide fire pit burns wood nonstop. Hunters stop at any hour to update the wild hog kill, bucks and does taken, have a drink and tell lies. They might have a bowl of fresh neckbone stew cooked with a variety of vegetables, smoked sausage sections cooked on the grill, or hotdogs. They are a resourceful bunch heating hotdogs on a stretched out clothes hanger. But I was lost when it came to warming the buns. The guys threw a long branch over the pit. One of the men opened a hotdog bun and rested it around a small branch. Voila! It toasted. From a four-year old to grandpas, the hotdogs were a hit. Thank you Oscar Mayer! Visit them at oscarmayer.com
2012 Red Convertible Travel Series
Showing posts with label hunting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hunting. Show all posts
Monday, November 26, 2012
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Lost in Mississippi
I'd gone to Warren's to get JB and make arrangements for AAA to pick up his truck. Sat. night a spring popped out of the door, and it wouldn't shut. In the daylight, it was a simple solution. A beautiful fall ahead of us, Warren looked around, "We're going on an adventure."
Adventure water and a bag of turkey and cheese sandwiches in tow, we piled into his open Jeep bumped and swayed about the Hills, over dusty, scrunchy gravel roads and lumpy cotton fields African Safari-ish with the radio wide open. No creeping up on wildlife, people either. We didn't see either.
There was a little grit on those sandwiches, good for the gizzard. The guys searched for places to hunt while I pondered how they cleared the land to begin with; MS has been wooded since before Moses.
Our last forward turn was not an exit to the highway; we dead ended in tall grass lost as a goose. Daylight would last about an hour, and there was no phone service.
I don't pay enough attention to where I am when I'm not driving. I kept still and prayed. Warren slowly turned around. "We better go back the way we came."
"Does anybody remember how we got here?" JB asked.
The picture is a gooey spot with our tracks, a good sign.
Scrub trees forked and tracks weren't visible, I held my breath. Warren stopped. I'm thinking, if we make the wrong turn, we might run out of gas, night would be cold, I for sure am not sitting here while they go for help. His thoughts sorted, he turned to the right. It took almost an hour to reach civilization, but we made it. Whew! An adventure Mississippi style!
2010 Red Convertible Travel Series
Friday, November 17, 2006
Hunting Season - Rite of Passage
This weekend is the opening of deer season in Mississippi. Today hunters arrived at their camps with provisions. Rifles were zeroed in at the firing range. Tonight campfires will blaze, grills will cook pork roasts, hamburgers, hotdogs, polish sausage, and just maybe some wild hog. Talk will be about where they're going to hunt tomorrow . Deer stands are popular and the game quota strictly enforced.
In the Midwest we mostly work. Second homes/camps are unusual. In the South, most any weekend will find the guys at their second home Fri. thru Sunday. During hunting season no one gets married, and you better not die. One hunter said he's been hunting since he was a little boy. It meant everything to him. He was so excited he couldn't sleep the night before. By the size of the membership, and it isn't cheap, it still means everything to a lot of them.
Bagging the first deer is a milestone for hunters. Traditionally five fingers are dipped in its blood and spread on the hunter's face. All who see him know what he or she has accomplished. Other hunters look up to him/her. We saw a forty-four year old man so proud he glowed.
At age nine, John L. made his first kill. When he was twelve he bagged a nine point with fourteen and a half inch spread, a buck of about two and a half years. "I used a 30-30 Winchester zeroed in at 150 yards. It was a long shot at 170 yards, but I made it." He grinned. "Not only did the local paper do a feature story, it was mounted for free as the largest in its class. It is something that will always go with me, and people will talk about it for a long time. "
John's family splits the tenderloin down the center, puts in chopped bell peppers, onions, and cajun spice. Hickory smoked dry rub is spread on the outside with salt, pepper, and seasoned salt. Sealed in foil, it's placed on the grill to roast or in the oven.
We like our venison run through the tenderizer and soaked in either milk or coca cola to remove any gamey taste. We season it with worcesteshire sauce, salt and pepper, and bread each piece with milk, beaten eggs and flour and fry. Purple-hulled peas, greens and cornbread round out the meal.
They'll go out before daylight to get in their stands, wait patiently for hours, then come back cold and hungry for biscuits and gravy. There will be lots of talk about where they heard a shot come from and did they get anything. The story is the same every year. It's what they live for.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
In the Midwest we mostly work. Second homes/camps are unusual. In the South, most any weekend will find the guys at their second home Fri. thru Sunday. During hunting season no one gets married, and you better not die. One hunter said he's been hunting since he was a little boy. It meant everything to him. He was so excited he couldn't sleep the night before. By the size of the membership, and it isn't cheap, it still means everything to a lot of them.
Bagging the first deer is a milestone for hunters. Traditionally five fingers are dipped in its blood and spread on the hunter's face. All who see him know what he or she has accomplished. Other hunters look up to him/her. We saw a forty-four year old man so proud he glowed.
At age nine, John L. made his first kill. When he was twelve he bagged a nine point with fourteen and a half inch spread, a buck of about two and a half years. "I used a 30-30 Winchester zeroed in at 150 yards. It was a long shot at 170 yards, but I made it." He grinned. "Not only did the local paper do a feature story, it was mounted for free as the largest in its class. It is something that will always go with me, and people will talk about it for a long time. "
John's family splits the tenderloin down the center, puts in chopped bell peppers, onions, and cajun spice. Hickory smoked dry rub is spread on the outside with salt, pepper, and seasoned salt. Sealed in foil, it's placed on the grill to roast or in the oven.
We like our venison run through the tenderizer and soaked in either milk or coca cola to remove any gamey taste. We season it with worcesteshire sauce, salt and pepper, and bread each piece with milk, beaten eggs and flour and fry. Purple-hulled peas, greens and cornbread round out the meal.
They'll go out before daylight to get in their stands, wait patiently for hours, then come back cold and hungry for biscuits and gravy. There will be lots of talk about where they heard a shot come from and did they get anything. The story is the same every year. It's what they live for.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Sunday, December 04, 2005
ARKANSAS: Bullets & Bay Leaves
We were invited to Arkansas for opening week of deer season. It was a warm, carefree, Huck Finn weekend fishing for trout in the clear, cold White River, and hiking the bank looking for deer tracks, trails, and scrapes. We found an old, abandoned still with clear glass bottles strewn around, observed wild hen turkeys, sneaked a peak at two gobblers secure in the brush, and witnessed a blitz cross our vision that was a roadrunner. Where was the coyote?
"Come on, you've got to see this," Hoov urged stepping out of the boat into the water. I followed filling my boots with goo. In the cove he brushed aside the leaves with his foot and said, "Listen." We heard bubbling, the earth giving up fresh water.
Hoov's camp is a testimony to taxidermy: large-mouth and striped bass; a ring-tail cat; pheasants, and a Razorback hog head in the bathroom ringed with a pink flower lei. He cooked nonstop, and I took notes. We loved his seafood gumbo, New England clam chowder, and potato salad with chopped dill pickle. I'd brought fresh rosemary, but not bay leaves. I should have listened to my instinct, Hoov needed some and it was sixteen curvy miles to town.
The deer were nowhere to be seen, except on the road at night. But the camp was lively. Two new dogs: Pointers, and sisters had to be named. After much hilarity they were dubbed Bonnie and Clyde. A magic marker was used to write their name on their collar and on each of their owner's faces. We all left before a storm put his deck on top of the house.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
"Come on, you've got to see this," Hoov urged stepping out of the boat into the water. I followed filling my boots with goo. In the cove he brushed aside the leaves with his foot and said, "Listen." We heard bubbling, the earth giving up fresh water.
Hoov's camp is a testimony to taxidermy: large-mouth and striped bass; a ring-tail cat; pheasants, and a Razorback hog head in the bathroom ringed with a pink flower lei. He cooked nonstop, and I took notes. We loved his seafood gumbo, New England clam chowder, and potato salad with chopped dill pickle. I'd brought fresh rosemary, but not bay leaves. I should have listened to my instinct, Hoov needed some and it was sixteen curvy miles to town.
The deer were nowhere to be seen, except on the road at night. But the camp was lively. Two new dogs: Pointers, and sisters had to be named. After much hilarity they were dubbed Bonnie and Clyde. A magic marker was used to write their name on their collar and on each of their owner's faces. We all left before a storm put his deck on top of the house.
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
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