A blog of the Freer Family's adventures and misadventures emigrating to Flinders Island, Tasmania, Australia, and settling there.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Pheasant plucker's son...
I'm not a pheasant plucker...
But I had to learn, last night. This (and the rather clumsily dressed 'roo in background) were the partial fruits of an expedition to pick up elderly horsepoo from the top of a mountain. Yes, actually I do live an implausible life. I'd never field dressed a wallaby before and so that too was an 'adventure' - less so for the ex-wallaby.
I can say that on a freezing night, if you have no access to cold fusion-powered gloves, having your hands inside the inner parts of a recently dead wallaby is quite effective, if not likely to be popular on the streets of large urban areas. Skinning these, with no prior experience to help was... interesting - especially peeling the tail!
Anyway I now have a half trailer load of lovely vintage horse manure (the 8 year old - the 2003, has matured well, with excellent body and a lovely colour with a bouquet unlike horse excreta, and has in fact become old rich compost. I am adding soil and compost to it - if I can add sun and some plants hopefully we can get a few veggies - my main patch just isn't seeing any real sun. I have to trim trees.
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Never plucked a pheasant... but I've skinned and dressed out many a wallaby. It's never the tail that's the issue for me. That's just a bit of brute strength. It's the fiddly bit, where you have to try to disconnect the... um... wallaby's fundamental orifice from the hide without losing the contents of the intestine all over the place.ReplyDelete
I hate that.