I have something about myself that I just discovered that is giving me a sense of pride. Someone gave us a treat of moose steaks. Now this is a rare treat. We can't hunt for moose as easily as they did in the pioneer days, we have to put our names in a draw and hope you get to get one. Then go out and try to shoot one, another chance you won't get it. So having these couple of pieces is definitely rare.
Well, to get on with what I'm proud of, I noticed how everyone is very fond of moose around here, that is, they enjoy it regardless of it being the toughest meat ever. I knew this and I knew how to cook it so that it is so good, the only problem is there is never enough. That good.
I discovered how to do this by reading old books of the pioneer days, such as Little House on the Prairie, and other books, I used to read a lot of them in my early twenties. My favorite was a book written by a pioneer woman who lost her husband in a wagon turnover, and she was left pregnant and alone. From there the town married her to a widower with a little girl of the age of three. She knew nothing of children and suddenly she was the mother of a three year old. She did not know her new husband at all. And she was barely able to grieve the loss of her husband. The town thought it was proper for her to be married, since she was pregnant, and this way she would be provided for. But she did not know him at all.
The day they got married, he took off for a few weeks to work, and she was left alone with the child. When he got back, she still did not know him. I don't remember much more of the story, and I don't remember the title of the book. I would often read stories like this and it fascinated me.
Well, from one of them, don't know which, I learned how to make moose meat perfect without spoiling the taste of the moose. I just fry them up all the way. This is what people usually do, and proceed to cut the pieces up very small and then settle down to the long act of chewing. Now, lots of the people from my books lived on wild game lots. It was a way of survival, for farming was tricky and living was hard. With hunting, they did not have to bother with the lottery of winning a chance to hunt. They just went out and hunted when need be. They were responsible for the most part.
So after I fry them up in the pan really well, I make gravy from what is left in the pan. Then I put this in the oven to "stew" for a while. Usually an hour or two. The only problem is that there is never enough.
I know how to cook a lot of things from reading those books. I know how to bake a pie over an open fire too. Its weird, for my mother never taught me anything. I was left to fend for myself at an early age. It is only by chance I developed a love of old books.
