So I was working away at John Deere today when I had an excellent idea. I have been craving the BBQ season ever more as the snow has been dissipating. But what to Que? I'm not a big beef guy, but I do have a freezer full of other various ungulates. A few months ago I purchased a meat grinder at Value Village for a couple bucks. Just a small little guy, it is the kind that clamps on to a counter top. So I popped some deer into the microwave and even some bacon to boot. After it was defrosted I ground it into a small bowl and came up with these ingredients to add to the recipe recipe-
Some grated cheese
One beaten egg to keep it all together
A hand full of oats to for the same purpose
A little pepper
A touch of ground mustard
A dash of oregano
A splash of garlic
Seasoning salt to taste
and last of all I put half a white onion in there.
After all was said and done I ended up with 12 burgers. I shall be eating excellent lunches for the rest of the week.
Fuck you McDonalds.
currently listening to Steve Earle and the Del McCoy(spl?) Band
Monday, March 22, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Canoe season
It is here, well, almost. I can not be more excited and filled with anticipation. Last fall I purchased a brand new canoe after my old one was replaced on warranty. What I did was simply upgrade instead of taking my replacement canoe. My 16 foot blue beauty has been waiting 6 long months to feel the coolness of fresh water lapping at its sides and i have been waiting even longer. This reminds me also that i have to crisen my new craft. I read somewhere that it is tradition to break a bottle of wine open on the side of your vessel as you name your fair lady on her maiden voyage. I have yet to come up with a good name though. Perhaps those of you out there in Internet land can come up with something clever for me to use.
In recognition of the upcoming season I have decided to post my favorite canoe stories from days gone by. Hopefully I can keep up with the blogging and get a few stories on here this week.
#1
On the maiden voyage with my last canoe, I decided I would complete a two week somewhat round trip on the Churchill river and some of its surrounding lakes. The most important aspect to tell about this trip is that aside from maybe two afternoons in my entire life I had never been canoeing before. That and I would be by myself. If any of you have been up North at all, you know that there really is no one around and lakes really are not the easiest thing to navigate in a canoe, let alone in a canoe by yourself. I had a few topographical maps with me to find the way but these soon become almost useless. When you are floating on the water, islands in the horizon which might normally give you some semblence of direction, simply blend in to the mainland and you really start to feel like you can no longer trust your compass. To give you an idea of how useless I really was at reading maps, before the trip as I scoured the lakes and rivers on the piece of paper I noticed a particular spot that I would have to canoe through to get to the mighty Churchill. "Of course! I can just paddle right on through that" I said to myself as I neglected to take into account the elevation change between the two bodies of water. When I eventually paddled up to that spot in the map in real life, I was greeted by a roaring mamoth of white water and the pleasant surprise of an uphill, downhill, two km portage. Basicly it fucking sucked. But back to my story.
My plan was to canoe the churchill for about a week and then head up through a series of small lakes until I reached Clam Lake where I would meet my family. The whole time I just assumed there would be well marked trails and that between every lake I would be able to portage a short distance. After about a week on the Churchill I dragged my canoe to the bottom of the powerfull Birch rapids where I believed I would find the portage into the string of lakes I was hoping to follow. Slipping the canoe back into the water I searched the shoreline which really was more of a giant marsh than a defined feature. This was another case of me mistakingly thinking I could either canoe up the river that entered this marsh on on side or portage right beside it, but the river resembled the stream of piss that I subjected my maps to rather than a navigatable system of water, and the bush was so thick it was all I could do to simply walk thought it. So with dismay looking over my shoulder I paddled back out to the bottom of the rapids, not really sure what I was going to do about my current situation. I had no other maps so I could not keep going down the Churchill without getting lost, and I really did not want to turn around. So there I was fishing at the bottom of the mighty flow when this 20 foot aluminum gas powered boat comes bounding over the rocks on top of the rapids, I could not believe my eyes, ovbiously these people had done this before. They slowly approached me and when they were within shouting distance the driver yelled, "Wheres your queen?" I told him I had to leave her behind and we struck up a conversation. I explained my situation to the two men and they then invited me to camp with them at their cabin where we could talk further. These two Cree men then hauled up my craft onto their boat so it stradled it at a right angle and became some sort of giant red boat wing and we preceeded to bound through the next series of rapids going from side to side avoiding the rocks and having a gay old time. Once we were at camp I was treated me with the purest and most genuine hospitality that is oh so common in the North. I was given a spread of fresh moose meat, carrots, potatoes, and even a soda pop, which for some reason I had been craving since the fateful day I entered the water. Conversation turned to my predicament and I pulled out my maps. My new friends looked at the paper and gave a loud chuckle. They knew the trail I could take. It was the start of their trap line, and it was located ten feet behind the cabin. Never in a million years would I have figured this out on my own but somehow I was struck with ten thousand volts of dumb fucking luck. For the rest of the evening I was treated to adventure stories of the north and awoke the next morning to bacon and eggs and more soda pop. As I left the cabin door to carry on my way I vowed that I really would not forget these two men as long as the rivers flow and my paddle dips beneath thier surface.
In recognition of the upcoming season I have decided to post my favorite canoe stories from days gone by. Hopefully I can keep up with the blogging and get a few stories on here this week.
#1
On the maiden voyage with my last canoe, I decided I would complete a two week somewhat round trip on the Churchill river and some of its surrounding lakes. The most important aspect to tell about this trip is that aside from maybe two afternoons in my entire life I had never been canoeing before. That and I would be by myself. If any of you have been up North at all, you know that there really is no one around and lakes really are not the easiest thing to navigate in a canoe, let alone in a canoe by yourself. I had a few topographical maps with me to find the way but these soon become almost useless. When you are floating on the water, islands in the horizon which might normally give you some semblence of direction, simply blend in to the mainland and you really start to feel like you can no longer trust your compass. To give you an idea of how useless I really was at reading maps, before the trip as I scoured the lakes and rivers on the piece of paper I noticed a particular spot that I would have to canoe through to get to the mighty Churchill. "Of course! I can just paddle right on through that" I said to myself as I neglected to take into account the elevation change between the two bodies of water. When I eventually paddled up to that spot in the map in real life, I was greeted by a roaring mamoth of white water and the pleasant surprise of an uphill, downhill, two km portage. Basicly it fucking sucked. But back to my story.
My plan was to canoe the churchill for about a week and then head up through a series of small lakes until I reached Clam Lake where I would meet my family. The whole time I just assumed there would be well marked trails and that between every lake I would be able to portage a short distance. After about a week on the Churchill I dragged my canoe to the bottom of the powerfull Birch rapids where I believed I would find the portage into the string of lakes I was hoping to follow. Slipping the canoe back into the water I searched the shoreline which really was more of a giant marsh than a defined feature. This was another case of me mistakingly thinking I could either canoe up the river that entered this marsh on on side or portage right beside it, but the river resembled the stream of piss that I subjected my maps to rather than a navigatable system of water, and the bush was so thick it was all I could do to simply walk thought it. So with dismay looking over my shoulder I paddled back out to the bottom of the rapids, not really sure what I was going to do about my current situation. I had no other maps so I could not keep going down the Churchill without getting lost, and I really did not want to turn around. So there I was fishing at the bottom of the mighty flow when this 20 foot aluminum gas powered boat comes bounding over the rocks on top of the rapids, I could not believe my eyes, ovbiously these people had done this before. They slowly approached me and when they were within shouting distance the driver yelled, "Wheres your queen?" I told him I had to leave her behind and we struck up a conversation. I explained my situation to the two men and they then invited me to camp with them at their cabin where we could talk further. These two Cree men then hauled up my craft onto their boat so it stradled it at a right angle and became some sort of giant red boat wing and we preceeded to bound through the next series of rapids going from side to side avoiding the rocks and having a gay old time. Once we were at camp I was treated me with the purest and most genuine hospitality that is oh so common in the North. I was given a spread of fresh moose meat, carrots, potatoes, and even a soda pop, which for some reason I had been craving since the fateful day I entered the water. Conversation turned to my predicament and I pulled out my maps. My new friends looked at the paper and gave a loud chuckle. They knew the trail I could take. It was the start of their trap line, and it was located ten feet behind the cabin. Never in a million years would I have figured this out on my own but somehow I was struck with ten thousand volts of dumb fucking luck. For the rest of the evening I was treated to adventure stories of the north and awoke the next morning to bacon and eggs and more soda pop. As I left the cabin door to carry on my way I vowed that I really would not forget these two men as long as the rivers flow and my paddle dips beneath thier surface.
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