Day 47: Pheasant plucking

In yesterday’s wine lecture we briefly touched upon biodynamics: the symbiosis that governs man's relationship with nature; seed days, root days, fruit days, flower days. My visiting friend turns to me with a quiet aside; “That’s got to be bollocks, hasn’t it?” Today, one of the guys was sat outside plucking a pheasant, when a seagull shat on him. To me, that’s biodynamics.

The male pheasant is a beautiful creature. I’ve eaten a good few in my time, and seen plenty more, either prone by the side of the road or clucking aimlessly about the countryside. This morning I took one from the cold room and carried him delicately by the neck, his vivid plumage still intact. Once outside I began ripping feather from him, working over his whole body, trying to avoid the obvious cavities or areas that may yield squeamish results. Bit by bit his bare flesh was exposed, small remnants of feather and light hairs remaining behind. Plucking down his neck I was a little too forceful and inadvertently de-skinned his whole neck. I plucked the wonderful fan feathers from his tail in order to better expose his nether regions and thus avoid any nasty surprises.

Half an hour or so later and the plucking is done. I take him inside and on a chopping board decapitate him with one foul swoop of the Wusthof. Next I cut round his ankles and remove his feet, taking some tough cartilage with them. I trim up the wings. He is beginning to resemble the chicken straddling the oven brick in Withnail & I, but one crucial stage remains. JC, my teacher for the day, helpfully advises me to cut just above his arsehole, before turning away to excuse himself from the spectacle about to unfold. I make the necessary incision. I take two fingers and plunge them into the cavity. They follow the breastbone, scraping the pheasant’s organs away from his skeleton. I can feel them detaching themselves, one by one. I am trying not to inhale, as I am sure the smell is repulsive. I’m not looking either - I can imagine what this must look like. Each in their own time, his organs emerge from the chasm, beckoned forth by my bloodstained hand. Lungs. Gizzard. Liver. Heart. Intestines. Blood and entrails bond them together. I have to look. Disgusting. I am disturbed, but comforted by a scream behind me. My fellow plucker is performing the same operation upon her pheasant when it shits all over her. Biodynamics.

All this plucking has left my order of work in tatters. I reduce my day’s work to Pheasant with Bacon and Chorizo and Goat’s Cheese Bruschetta. This means making tomato and chilli jam to drizzle over the bruschetta. I’m halfway through the puree for this whilst gutting, cleaning then jointing my pheasant. I need to crack on. JC helpfully reminds me that I can do two things at once. I brown the meat whilst getting the puree together for the jam. I sweat the onions and garlic while I skin and chop the tomatoes. I start burning the onions and garlic while I’m looking for the chorizo. It’s not over though. I’m staying in the saddle here. I get the onions out of the pan as quickly as I can. I get them in a fresh one and add the tomatoes and chorizo. They won’t carry any of the burnt flavours with them because I extracted them in time. Just.

After this brief flirtation with chaos in the middle of the morning, order is quickly and confidently restored. Even when the onions were burning I stayed calm. If you lose control, the downward spiral is both immediate and final. I cannot stress how important tidiness and cleanliness are to this sense of control. When you cannot see beyond the backlog of pans, Pyrexes, mixers and wooden spoons, it is impossible to conceive a way out. When you are tidy - when you deal with the detritus step as it arises - the path is clear, and you exude confidence. It may not come naturally to me, tidiness, but I am getting there nonetheless.

The pheasant takes a lot of pepper, but you need to be careful with the salt. I taste and tweak. This particular pheasant isn’t that strong, but there are big robust flavours in the dish - paprika, chorizo and tomato. I add sugar (the tomatoes are tinned), plenty of pepper, and the salt, a little at a time, giving each addition time to work its magic before adjusting again. It is very good. A little thyme and parsley went in towards the end and give it all a delicate lift. I tasted the chillies before making the tomato and chilli jam and they weren’t that hot, so I kept all the seeds in. It has a good balance of heat, sweetness and saltiness, provided by a little fish sauce. I plate up a neat bruschetta of Ardsallagh goat’s cheese and rocket leaves and drizzle it over the top.

I’m all done and dusted by noon. Five days of cooking draw to a satisfactory close. The weekend extends its loving arms and beckons me hither; I run towards it and embrace it like a long lost friend.