And the Gratitude Continues...

Winter is finally upon us in our little community. The town is atwitter with talk of freezing lakes and dropping temperatures. Winter accessorizing is in full swing as girls and women joyfully don themselves with the cutest gloves and hats and mittens and scarves that have been laying in wait the past few warm months. It is as much a show of fashion as summer time, except with forced modesty -- not wishing to risk frostbite over a c-Ute ensemble. 

Our tree is up and is looking mighty fine. 

And our freezer is bursting with the spoils of my husbands hunt. This deer, which I shall now and forevermore refer to as Bertha, is leaving little room for anything but venison. And I have no idea how we will eat all of it. I am not a venison eater. I do not find myself licking my lips in hungry desire when driving past a well fed buck. I do not anxiously await November and hunting season, dreaming of sausage and roasts and beef sticks. I rarely eat meat at all. This is surprising for many, coming from a girl born and raised in northern Minnesota. Not regular Minnesota with its malls and suburbs and farms and overpasses. I grew up in NORTHERN Minnesota.

Northern Minnesota where camo is worn year-round and is considered "fashionable." Where wives are husbandless for three weekends and two weeks for hunting and processing. Where schools are mostly emptied for days as teens and teachers venture into the forest looking to get a 10-pointer in their sights. Where deer hang from trees and garages while hunters prepare to strap them to the roof of their vehicle, drive them through town -- to their father's, their brother's, their buddies', their pastor's and whoever else they think might want to rave over the trophy -- and get the "best darn sausage" made.

And I understand that there are others in other parts of Minnesota who enjoy them some hun'in' season too. But I am talking about the entire TOWN nearly shutting down for hunting opener...and every day after. I am not saying this to criticize or complain. It's just how it is. It's northern Minnesota. A different country altogether and unless you live there you just never quite understand it. And I love it. I love the way life is up there, in the northern woods. 

But I am not a participant. Yet, somehow, I find I have a Bertha in my freezer. Bertha! Why, no other name will do! We have 10 lbs. of breakfast sausage. TEN POUNDS. I was thinking about it earlier today and I'm not even sure I have eaten even 5 pounds of sausage myself in the last five...years! What on earth am I going to do with 10 lbs. of sausage and even more of roast and steak?! Oh, Lord have mercy. 

And you can tell me all you want that venison hamburger and beef hamburger taste the same, but they don't. And any non-lifer venison eater will tell you the same thing. There is a distinct gamey taste and smell. Eek. But I promised Jason I would do my best. He did do all the work. I mean, he did get his snowpants on and boots, his hat and gloves. He did get his gun ready. Wait, no. I got his gun ready. But he did walk all the way into the woods. Some…20 yards from his parent's house. He did climb into the stand and he did wait. And wait...for 30 minutes in the blistering 45 degree November air before he shot Bambi's mom. And he did carry her...onto the back of the four-wheeler and drive her into the pole barn. Okay, fine. I'm being sarcastic...but yes, YES I will try my best to eat what I can and make new dishes. Because we do have a lot to be thankful for in this little nest. Our family of two...who are actually healthy and warm this beginning of the Christmas season.