Pheasant Hunting Quotes

Park hated football. He cried when his dad took him pheasant hunting. Nobody in the neighbourhood could ever tell who he was dressed as on Halloween. ('I'm Doctor Who.' 'I'm Harp Marx.' 'I'm Count Floyd.') And he kind of wanted his mom to give him blond highlights.

Even his sleep was full of dreams. He dreamt as he had not dreamt since the old days at Three Mile Cross — of hares starting from the long grass; of pheasants rocketing up with long tails streaming, of partridges rising with a whirr from the stubble. He dreamt that he was hunting, that he was chasing some spotted spaniel, who fled, who escaped him. He was in Spain; he was in Wales; he was in Berkshire; he was flying before park-keepers’ truncheons in Regent’s Park. Then he opened his eyes. There were no hares, and no partridges; no whips cracking and no black men crying “Span! Span!” There was only Mr. Browning in the armchair talking to Miss Barrett on the sofa.

You might want to know that my dad taught me to shoot so that I could hunt with him, which I’ve been doin’ since I was a kid. I can kill a pheasant in flight. I can kill a rabbit running for its burrow. I’ve even shot a squirrel scrambling up a great big ol’ oak. So, I can damn sure hit your knee from a few feet away. Now, you and your boys need to back the fuck away from our truck, or I will happily give you tangible proof that I am indeed an excellent shot.

Both of the Croxons admired her feast. A tureen of Nan's hare soup sent up a savory steam, and around it was laid roasted pheasant and buttered cabbage. At the centre of the table was the buttery pudding, packed drum-tight with beef and kidney. Even the mistress ate and drank bravely, while the master pounced upon his food. Yet more dishes arrived for the second course: the master's favorite, her own hunting pudding of fruit and brandy, a bread-crumbed ham, the apple pie and syllabub, nuts and candied fruits.

I cooked with so many of the greats: Tom Colicchio, Eric Ripert, Wylie Dufresne, Grant Achatz. Rick Bayless taught me not one but two amazing mole sauces, the whole time bemoaning that he never seemed to know what to cook for his teenage daughter. Jose Andres made me a classic Spanish tortilla, shocking me with the sheer volume of viridian olive oil he put into that simple dish of potatoes, onions, and eggs. Graham Elliot Bowles and I made gourmet Jell-O shots together, and ate leftover cheddar risotto with Cheez-Its crumbled on top right out of the pan. Lucky for me, Maria still includes me in special evenings like this, usually giving me the option of joining the guests at table, or helping in the kitchen. I always choose the kitchen, because passing up the opportunity to see these chefs in action is something only an idiot would do. Susan Spicer flew up from New Orleans shortly after the BP oil spill to do an extraordinary menu of all Gulf seafood for a ten-thousand-dollar-a-plate fund-raising dinner Maria hosted to help the families of Gulf fishermen. Local geniuses Gil Langlois and Top Chef winner Stephanie Izard joined forces with Gale Gand for a seven-course dinner none of us will ever forget, due in no small part to Gil's hoisin oxtail with smoked Gouda mac 'n' cheese, Stephanie's roasted cauliflower with pine nuts and light-as-air chickpea fritters, and Gale's honey panna cotta with rhubarb compote and insane little chocolate cookies. Stephanie and I bonded over hair products, since we have the same thick brown curls with a tendency to frizz, and the general dumbness of boys, and ended up giggling over glasses of bourbon till nearly two in the morning. She is even more awesome, funny, sweet, and genuine in person than she was on her rock-star winning season on Bravo. Plus, her food is spectacular all day. I sort of wish she would go into food television and steal me from Patrick. Allen Sternweiler did a game menu with all local proteins he had hunted himself, including a pheasant breast over caramelized brussels sprouts and mushrooms that melted in your mouth (despite the occasional bit of buckshot). Michelle Bernstein came up from Miami and taught me her white gazpacho, which I have since made a gajillion times, as it is probably one of the world's perfect foods.

I have carted mangolds many times since then, and it is an occasion that always marks for me the beginning of winter. I recall those twilights, the gaunt yet tender-coloured sky, the still air, pheasants calling in the distance, or a hunting-horn sounding for home. The last of summer's wealth is housed, and ahead lies frost and early dark, shooting, hunting, forelight; ploughing and cross-ploughing, the breaking of ice for the creatures' drink, the carting of straw for their warmth.

spoken after Talis had displayed the fruits of his last hunt, “It’s just a pheasant, boy. Your brother hunted big game when he was twelve.” He clenched his jaw, still feeling humiliated

mind, spoken after Talis had displayed the fruits of his last hunt, “It’s just a pheasant, boy. Your brother hunted big game when he was

Talis searched the swamplands for prey, wanting the kill he hoped would make his father proud. Visibility was limited due to the thick mist that choked the air. He wiped his brow and sighed, wondering if this hunt was such a good idea. But then his father’s words echoed in his mind, spoken after Talis had displayed the fruits of his last hunt, “It’s just a pheasant, boy. Your brother hunted big game when he was twelve.” He clenched his jaw, still feeling humiliated at the words. Why did Father’s voice etch in his mind like ink on a page? His brother had hunted with a team of men and only managed to bounce his spear off a deer. Talis was thirteen now and though he’d asked many times had been spurned by every hunting trip his father’s men had pursued. How was he supposed to impress his father if he was spurned at every hunt? Talis and Mara had no other choice but to sneak off and hunt by themselves.

Talis searched the swamplands for prey, wanting the kill he hoped would make his father proud. Visibility was limited due to the thick mist that choked the air. He wiped his brow and sighed, wondering if this hunt was such a good idea. But then his father’s words echoed in his mind, spoken after Talis had displayed the fruits of his last hunt, “It’s just a pheasant, boy. Your brother hunted big game when he was twelve.” He clenched his jaw, still feeling humiliated at the words. Why did Father’s voice etch in his mind like ink on a page? His brother had hunted with a team of men and only managed to bounce his spear off a deer. Talis was thirteen now and though he’d asked many times had been spurned by every hunting trip his father’s men had pursued. How was he supposed to impress his father if he was spurned at every hunt? Talis and Mara had no other choice but to sneak off and hunt by themselves. Finding

There’s sugar beets and sweet corn and green peas. And those low buildings way over there? Turkey farms. Minnesota is the biggest producer of turkeys in the country. There’d be no Thanksgiving without Minnesota, that’s for darn sure. And don’t get me started on hunting. We’ve got pheasants, quail, grouse, whitetail deer, you name it. It’s a hunter’s paradise.

It’s just a pheasant, boy. Your brother hunted big game when he was twelve.

get hurt.” “Though I appreciate your concern, I think I can take care of myself just fine.” She jutted her chin at the stream. “Are you coming or not? I thought you agreed to this hunt.” “Yeah, a pheasant or a deer, sure. But a boar? That’s crazy!” “We’ve been out here all day and we’ve got nothing to show for it. We’ve already successfully hunted other game. It’s time for us to step things up. Are we doing this?” “I agreed to sneak out here without the rangers, but I’m worried, Mara. You know how insistent your mother was about us going hunting alone.” This was going in the wrong direction, and Mara wasn’t listening. “I’m hungry, irritable, and want nothing more than to eat a slice of peach cobbler, enjoy a mug of ale, and prop my feet up and feel the heat of the fire. Besides, I’m not going to let you get yourself killed doing something stupid as hell like hunting a boar in the dark.” “Don’t be angry, you know it doesn’t do anybody any good.” She flashed him a condescending smile that made him even more irritated. Finally, in a blatant act of trying to console him, she lowered her voice until it was as soft as a cat’s purr. “Listen, we can do it… can’t we try just one more time?” “It’s enough, Mara. Let’s go

pheasant, boy. Your brother hunted big game when he was twelve.” He clenched his jaw, still feeling humiliated at the words. Why

There’s something about the creeping, overly cautious canine’s approach to game that makes birds jittery¬—and they won’t hold. Whereas, the dashing, bold approach—then the sudden, stanch stop at just the right instant and distance ¬— tends to overawe game and make it lie. Birds get no chance to “think it over.” The dog is on them almost before they know it. Then, if a stanch dog doesn’t budge—neither does the game. And that’s the secret of the bold dog’s success. A secret that holds true regardless of the game — from woodcock to pheasants, from grouse to prairie chicken, and from quail to Hungarian partridge.

So, this moment of supposed triumph (I’d “found my voice!”) was also sad. It was as if I’d sent the hunting dog that was my talent out across a meadow to fetch a magnificent pheasant and it had brought back, let’s say, the lower half of a Barbie doll. To put it another way: having gone about as high up Hemingway Mountain as I could go, having realized that even at my best I could only ever hope to be an acolyte up there, resolving never again to commit the sin of being imitative, I stumbled back down into the valley and came upon a little shit-hill labeled “Saunders Mountain.” “Hmm,” I thought. “It’s so little. And it’s a shit-hill.” Then again, that was my name on it.

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