Friday, March 21, 2008

Wild Turkey in a Blizzard, Bad.

The Chef never stops wearing his bear skin during winter. He is always cold, even while cooking, bent over a brick oven fire. The surrounding woods have lurking creatures, and The Chef has developed within himself a potpourri of understanding on the complimental relations between certain herbs and meats. The Chef is a meat eater. Meat for three meals a day. The Chef lives in the woods, 30 miles from one of the finest, five star restaurants in the world, Frowals. The Chef spends most of his time in the woods, hunting, gathering herbs, experimenting with different savory concoctions, testing them out on his audience of wife and young son. If a woman and a small child devour it with glee, it will surely be a hit on any menu. The Chef is head chef at Frowals, chief inventor of everything on the menu.

Thanksgiving approached and The Chef was hell bent on setting up the most succulent of all Thanksgiving meals. Wanting to set out of the finest white meat, The Chef was after a muscular turkey, none of this fat dark meat shit for him. The Chef draped on his battered bear skins and ripped his way through the forest to seek out the fastest turkey. The turkey that gave to the quickest chase, would be the one with a greater concentrate of fast twitch muscles.

On his sojourn, snow flakes began to drop from the sky. Big fat, fluffy snow. A blizzard ensued. Massive, cold, biting precipitation made for a viscious hunt. Eventually he came across a huddle of wild turkeys. He charged towards the cluster, not realizing the mean spirit of wild turkeys. They all perked up and went from the defensive to the offensive with greater speed than a fast twitch muscle. The Chef slipped in the freshly fallen snow, and crashed to the ground. Down for the count, the wild turkeys, seven of the them to be exact, jumped on their victorious opportunity. The Chef was attacked with beaks, partially protected by the bear skins. Thanks to the bear skins he was able to retain some strength against the sharp pain of many pecks. He reached up and snapped the neck of one turkey. That turkey was defeated, how ever his hand received a bitter lasceration, dripping bright blood onto the snow. With his other hand he was able to snap the neck of another turkey. He killed off two of the slower turkeys, and was encircled by five wild turkeys. The turkeys stopped for a second to consider the danger that was posed to them but realized they still had the advantage. In the few seconds of truce, The Chef took off running in the opposite direction, pistol ready. The turkeys gave chase. It wasn't long before the fastest turkey caught up with him. With split second reflex, The Chef spun around and nailed a bullet into the face of the alpha turkey. This was his dinner. The Chef stood his ground as the last four turkeys charged at him. He pegged them off one by one.

The first turkey he shot, the fastest, was dragged home by the fist of The Chef's bloody, pecked up hand. The blizzard soon buried the remains of the the other six turkeys, which would have been tasty enough to send off to second rate restaurants. The Chef prepared a practice feast with the speedy turkey. Baking the rascal stuffed with a mash of turnips, breadcrumbs, onion, carrot, wild rice and twenty one different herbs. The Chef and his family ate the hearty beast and bellys filled to the brim with satiating glee. Pleased, The Chef, son, and wife took to the woods the following bay, prepared with pistols. The goal, to defeat three alpha male wild turkeys, the ones that displayed top notch speed. Frowals would then prepare the three in the exact recipe conjured by The Chef in his practice meal, for a wildly successful Thanksgiving buffet.

1 comment:

jnkw said...

Bon goût, mais où êtes-tu cette semaine? Les arbres d'hiver apparaissent dépouillés...