Opening Disclaimer
A segment of what follows, is a true story from our early years of deer season. It includes one ill-advised moment involving a dining room window, a blaze orange vest, and a rifle. We know better now. It’s never happened since – and never will again. This tale is told with reverence, humor, and hindsight. Please don’t try this at home.
I overheard the men talking about licenses. Not fishing. Not marriage. Deer. Which means one thing: hunting season is upon us.
That’s a big deal in this household, especially to my husband, Tan, and his band of Asian cronies who treat deer meat like a delicacy.
Now, I’m on the fence about venison. I don’t love it, but I don’t loathe it. I do, however, bow down to the one dish – Sorn’s ginger deer. It could convert even the most skeptical carnivore. Ginger deer is the showstopper – thinly sliced, kissed with ginger, bathed in a sauce and served over rice.
Everyone claims they have the secret to removing the gamey taste from deer meat. I chuckle every time I hear someone swear by cream of mushroom or cream of chicken soup – bless their Midwestern hearts.
We actually do have the solution. It’s an Ancient Chinese Secret. And by “secret”, I mean: have our Asian friends cook it. That’s the real magic. They know exactly how to coax flavor out of wild game and turn it into something you’ll moan over with every bite. Many a time we don’t tell people what they’re eating because they’ll shy away from it. Let them taste it and they’re sold.
When we bought our 17 acres, Tan saw hunting ground. I saw a peaceful retreat. And then there was the shed – big, sturdy, full of potential. Tan was sold. I figured it was for storing tools, his boy toys and maybe a mower. Turns out, it was destined for meat processing.
Each fall, the guys head out to the deer stand at dawn or dusk. Tan’s friends tease him that if they don’t see any deer, it’s because the cigar smoke chased them away. I think his buddies are doing the actual hunting. Tan’s out there supervising, watching the news on his I-pad, puffing away.
And then it happens.
I walk down to the shed, expecting tools or silence. Instead, I’m greeted by a deer hanging in front of me. Bucket below. Drippings dripping.
I don’t like it. I never will. But I get the logic – there is an overabundance of them. Too many deer end up hit by cars, wasted. No one gets to thank them. No one gets fed. At least this way, the life is honored.
Processing time is ritual. Tan supervises. His friends do the work. Why? Because they’re good at it. And I have to admit, I admire how nothing goes to waste. Every part of the animal finds its way into a dish, a broth, a marinade. It’s not just practical, it’s reverent.
One evening in the shed, I had a quiet moment with our friend, Phaly Hoang. I confessed that when I see a deer hanging, I gently place my hand on it and whisper, “I’m sorry. Thank you for offering your life.” Phaly nodded and shared that he does the same. Before the shot, he also says a prayer to the gun gods. After the kill, he thanks the spirit of the deer. It’s respect, A way to honor the life taken. Total appreciation.
I found that sentiment endearing – sacred. It softened me. Because when reverence meets ritual, even the hunt becomes holy.
During the processing, the pan over the fire gets lit fast. The meat is as fresh as it’ll ever be. The guys cook something up immediately, laughing, tasting, savoring. And while I may never love the sight of a deer in the shed, I do love the way these men honor what they take, and how they feed us – with joy, tradition, and just the right amount of ginger.
I’ll never forget our first deer season as a married couple. I was working at the clinic back then. One chilly, late afternoon, I came home, walked through the door, and felt an unexpected gust of cold air rush toward me. Odd, I thought. The furnace was working. Or so I assumed.
As I made my way toward the dining room, I was greeted by a scene that had me speechless.
There was Tan and a good buddy of ours, standing in front of a wide-open window. Curtain removed. Gun pointed. And the kicker? Both men were wearing blaze orange hunting vests. A rather weak attempt at lawfulness -blaze orange vests worn proudly during an illegal indoor hunt.
Tan saw me and immediately gave the universal “shhh” signal with his finger to his lips. And then- BOOM. The gun went off.
Let me tell you – a gunshot inside a house is not subtle. It’s loud. It’s jarring. It’s did we just lose a wall? loud.
I didn’t want to look outside. I really didn’t. But curiosity got the better of me. I peeked. One eye closed. I saw the doe running in circles and then drop. Why do I let my curiosity get the best of me? Yep. One less deer roaming the Tan acreage.
Thankfully, dining room window hunting is no longer a thing around here. (Note to sheriff: we’re kidding. Mostly. I mean, what idiot in their right mind would hunt out of a dining room window – in an orange jacket – with a rifle – and a straight face?)
Now, we’ve upgraded to actual deer stands and outdoor strategy. The curtain stays up. The window stays closed.
So, put own your rifles. It’s happy hour! Grab your favorite cocktail and raise your hand in a toast:
To the blaze-orange jackets worn indoors.
To the dining room window that once doubled as a deer blind.
To the ginger deer that shuts down all skepticism.
To the prayers whispered to gun gods and the gratitude spoken to spirits.
To the men who cook with reverence and the women who walk in on wild scenes.
To the fire under the pot, the laughter in the shed, and the stories that get better every year.
And to our good friends – Phaly, Sorn, Larry and Pat, who will soon be gracing our shed. And to all the deer hunters soon taking up their ammo, their arrows, and their annual rituals. Here’s to a safe, respectful harvest for all. I look forward to the laughter, the stories and the good times ahead.
Cheers!
