Stanzas from the song, "Turdy Point Buck," by The Yoopers
I couldn't get to my grenades.
The howitzer was in the shop.
My stomach was tied into a monkey knot.
Ya, my only hope was Betty Lou.
She was da one:
A combination AK-57 Uzi radar laser triple barrel double scoped heat-seakin' shotgun.
Turdy point buck.
Yahh,
Turdy point buck.
Turdy point buck.
Well, he was comin' for me, gettin' bigger and bigger, but my fingers were so frozen I could not pull the trigger.
I kicked off my boots, fired with my big toe:
I was Dirty Harry, John Wayne, and G.I. Joe.
Ya, dat turdy point buck was only ten feet away.
Ya, still I couldn't seem to hit him and he wouldn't run away.
And after twenty minutes when the smoke cleared,
There were hunters on the ground and the world's biggest deer,
Standing tall and proud. He looked at me and yawned (ohhhhhhh dear)
And then a flash of white, and there he was, gone.
* * *
I couldn't get to my grenades.
The howitzer was in the shop.
My stomach was tied into a monkey knot.
Ya, my only hope was Betty Lou.
She was da one:
A combination AK-57 Uzi radar laser triple barrel double scoped heat-seakin' shotgun.
Turdy point buck.
Yahh,
Turdy point buck.
Turdy point buck.
Well, he was comin' for me, gettin' bigger and bigger, but my fingers were so frozen I could not pull the trigger.
I kicked off my boots, fired with my big toe:
I was Dirty Harry, John Wayne, and G.I. Joe.
Ya, dat turdy point buck was only ten feet away.
Ya, still I couldn't seem to hit him and he wouldn't run away.
And after twenty minutes when the smoke cleared,
There were hunters on the ground and the world's biggest deer,
Standing tall and proud. He looked at me and yawned (ohhhhhhh dear)
And then a flash of white, and there he was, gone.
* * *
I am not among the half million Wisconsin hunters, dressed in blaze orange clothing, standing inside or on the edge of mature forests or "pushing deer" during Thanksgiving week, waiting to catch sight of a "thirty point buck."
My son-in-law Bret and two grandsons, Ethan and Sawyer, are avid deer hunters. They're presently on Bret's dad's land near Eau Claire. Brothers-in-law, Leonard, Lyle, and Larry are also devoted deer hunters.
Young Sawyer already has downed two deer during this year’s youth and bow hunting seasons. His first deer ended up in my freezer as a multitude of venison summer sausages, made by Brandon Meat Mart in nearby Brandon, Wisconsin, where I also pick up the annual Thanksgiving 20 lb. turkey. Sawyer supplied me with a year's worth of sausages last year, as well. I'm not anti-hunting; I just don't partake in the hunt, which Milwaukee Journal scribes call the Deer Harvest.
Harvest?
Wisconsin farmers harvest hay, alfalfa, wheat, corn, and soy beans, but I don't understand how hunters harvest whitetail bucks. Hunters shoot and kill bucks for food and sport and if the deer's antlers are big enough and have the correct number of tines, the head along with its antlers will be taken to a taxidermist and eventually hung on some wall as a trophy. Daughter Shelley won't allow a deer head inside her home. Thus, her husband and sons' trophies hang on walls of the recreation room on the second floor of their barn.
Forty five years ago, I took part in the hunt for about three years, and then I quit. I didn't get a kick out of pushing deer or leaning against a tree or sitting on a stump, my toes nearly frost bitten and finger tips numb while waiting for the elusive whitetail male to show up in order for me to shoot it.
Instead, the start of the deer gun season prompts me to actively prepare for the Thanksgiving Day meal which Lori and I host each year for family members and sometimes, friends.
Two days ago, I mixed ingredients for mincemeat pie. I make two such pies each year, one for Thanksgiving and later, the other for Christmas. I devour both pies, a piece at a time, a day at a time, all by myself, except for two pieces I give to my sister-in-law, Jill, and her husband, Leonard. Mincemeat, having a distinct flavor unlike any other dessert I've ever eaten, has been my favorite after dinner treat ever since I was a tyke. If I have any leftover mincemeat nowadays, I'll bake mincemeat cookies. Folks who tell me they "hate" even the thought of mincemeat will down the cookies as if they're Lay's potato chips. They can't eat just one. Naturally, I don’t announces the “wonderfully tasting” cookies’ ingredients.
Back in my youth around Christmastime, Mother bought dried mincemeat mix at the A&P in a small box, half the size of a brick. The compact, dried mixture was wrapped in extra thick wax paper. Make no doubt about it, the ingredients were as rigid as concrete until Mother dropped the rectangular lump into a boiling pot of water, stirred constantly with a long handle spoon, and voila, the finished result was semi-liquid ecstasy. When the viscous mixture cooled, she spooned it into a pie shell, topped it with crisscrossed strips of pie crust, and baked the affair at 425 degrees until the mixture bubbled over on to a cookie sheet, placed on the oven floor. The belching smoke coming from the oven announced that the pie was ready to be taken out and placed on a cooling rack.
Until about ten years ago, I purchased prepared mincemeat in jars at local stores in order to make my annual pies. My mother-in-law, Lenora Stam, found a mincemeat recipe in a hunting magazine. Once I followed its directions and mixed up a batch, I haven't used anything else for my annual pies.
I place two pounds of ground venison (thanks to Bret, Ethan, and Sawyer's hunting prowess) in a cast iron pot and add one cup of water, turn up the heat, and separate the meat with a fork. When the water is boiled out, the browned meat's ready. I let the meat cool. (One can use any large game animal ground meat or extra lean ground beef).
Next, I peel, core, and chop five pounds of Granny Smith apples, resulting in 3 ½ pounds of chopped apple, minus skin, core, and seeds, which I add to the venison. Next, I add two pounds of raisins, two cups of white sugar, two cups of brown sugar, 1 ½ sticks of butter, ½ t. pumpkin pie spice, ½ t. nutmeg, 2 t. salt, 1 ½ t. cinnamon and a quart of orange juice. If you guessed the pot I use is huge, you're correct. It's a cast iron Louisiana jambalaya pot that weighs over 20 pounds.
I heat the ingredients until the apple pieces are softened and raisins, plump, and orange juice is thickened. I let the mixture cool, spoon it into a plastic container, and place it in the refrigerator until Monday of Thanksgiving week when I spoon the cold mix into a pie shell, add a top crust, use a fork to poke holes in the top crust, allowing steam to exit the pie while baking at 425 degrees for three-quarters of an hour. Ummmm, the aroma and ultimate flavor are to die for.
In addition to mincemeat, I also make two pumpkin pies for Lori and the guests. They're welcome to them as long as I get to scarf my annual fix of delicious, mincemeat pie.
My son-in-law Bret and two grandsons, Ethan and Sawyer, are avid deer hunters. They're presently on Bret's dad's land near Eau Claire. Brothers-in-law, Leonard, Lyle, and Larry are also devoted deer hunters.
Young Sawyer already has downed two deer during this year’s youth and bow hunting seasons. His first deer ended up in my freezer as a multitude of venison summer sausages, made by Brandon Meat Mart in nearby Brandon, Wisconsin, where I also pick up the annual Thanksgiving 20 lb. turkey. Sawyer supplied me with a year's worth of sausages last year, as well. I'm not anti-hunting; I just don't partake in the hunt, which Milwaukee Journal scribes call the Deer Harvest.
Harvest?
Wisconsin farmers harvest hay, alfalfa, wheat, corn, and soy beans, but I don't understand how hunters harvest whitetail bucks. Hunters shoot and kill bucks for food and sport and if the deer's antlers are big enough and have the correct number of tines, the head along with its antlers will be taken to a taxidermist and eventually hung on some wall as a trophy. Daughter Shelley won't allow a deer head inside her home. Thus, her husband and sons' trophies hang on walls of the recreation room on the second floor of their barn.
Forty five years ago, I took part in the hunt for about three years, and then I quit. I didn't get a kick out of pushing deer or leaning against a tree or sitting on a stump, my toes nearly frost bitten and finger tips numb while waiting for the elusive whitetail male to show up in order for me to shoot it.
Instead, the start of the deer gun season prompts me to actively prepare for the Thanksgiving Day meal which Lori and I host each year for family members and sometimes, friends.
Two days ago, I mixed ingredients for mincemeat pie. I make two such pies each year, one for Thanksgiving and later, the other for Christmas. I devour both pies, a piece at a time, a day at a time, all by myself, except for two pieces I give to my sister-in-law, Jill, and her husband, Leonard. Mincemeat, having a distinct flavor unlike any other dessert I've ever eaten, has been my favorite after dinner treat ever since I was a tyke. If I have any leftover mincemeat nowadays, I'll bake mincemeat cookies. Folks who tell me they "hate" even the thought of mincemeat will down the cookies as if they're Lay's potato chips. They can't eat just one. Naturally, I don’t announces the “wonderfully tasting” cookies’ ingredients.
Back in my youth around Christmastime, Mother bought dried mincemeat mix at the A&P in a small box, half the size of a brick. The compact, dried mixture was wrapped in extra thick wax paper. Make no doubt about it, the ingredients were as rigid as concrete until Mother dropped the rectangular lump into a boiling pot of water, stirred constantly with a long handle spoon, and voila, the finished result was semi-liquid ecstasy. When the viscous mixture cooled, she spooned it into a pie shell, topped it with crisscrossed strips of pie crust, and baked the affair at 425 degrees until the mixture bubbled over on to a cookie sheet, placed on the oven floor. The belching smoke coming from the oven announced that the pie was ready to be taken out and placed on a cooling rack.
Until about ten years ago, I purchased prepared mincemeat in jars at local stores in order to make my annual pies. My mother-in-law, Lenora Stam, found a mincemeat recipe in a hunting magazine. Once I followed its directions and mixed up a batch, I haven't used anything else for my annual pies.
I place two pounds of ground venison (thanks to Bret, Ethan, and Sawyer's hunting prowess) in a cast iron pot and add one cup of water, turn up the heat, and separate the meat with a fork. When the water is boiled out, the browned meat's ready. I let the meat cool. (One can use any large game animal ground meat or extra lean ground beef).
Next, I peel, core, and chop five pounds of Granny Smith apples, resulting in 3 ½ pounds of chopped apple, minus skin, core, and seeds, which I add to the venison. Next, I add two pounds of raisins, two cups of white sugar, two cups of brown sugar, 1 ½ sticks of butter, ½ t. pumpkin pie spice, ½ t. nutmeg, 2 t. salt, 1 ½ t. cinnamon and a quart of orange juice. If you guessed the pot I use is huge, you're correct. It's a cast iron Louisiana jambalaya pot that weighs over 20 pounds.
I heat the ingredients until the apple pieces are softened and raisins, plump, and orange juice is thickened. I let the mixture cool, spoon it into a plastic container, and place it in the refrigerator until Monday of Thanksgiving week when I spoon the cold mix into a pie shell, add a top crust, use a fork to poke holes in the top crust, allowing steam to exit the pie while baking at 425 degrees for three-quarters of an hour. Ummmm, the aroma and ultimate flavor are to die for.
In addition to mincemeat, I also make two pumpkin pies for Lori and the guests. They're welcome to them as long as I get to scarf my annual fix of delicious, mincemeat pie.
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