My husband is a hunter. I’m a bit squeamish about anything involving killing things and bodily fluids, but I am fine with him doing what it is he does. More likely than not, though, if I’m eating meat it has to come from a sterilized Styrofoam container and bears little to no resemblance to the former animal from which it came. That’s just how I roll.
That’s not to say I haven’t tried fresh meat. It tends to be a little gamey for my liking, but I’m willing to give it a try. Or at least that was the case until that fateful May day in 2007. Because of that day, I can’t taste venison without wanting to puke. Hell, sometimes I can’t even smell it without wanting to blow chunks.
It was quite sad, really. We (the hubs and I) had just returned from the Most Amazing Weekend Ever, having spent our second honeymoon (okay, technically first, since we never went on one to begin with…) at Celebration IV in Los Angeles. Three solid days of sunshine, sight seeing, and Star Wars.
Sadly, while we were away there were some severe thunderstorms in our home area. Thunderstorms that were severe enough to knock out the power to our apartment. I don’t know how long the power was out in our apartment, but truthfully that does not matter. What matters is that the power surge tripped the breaker that controlled the power in the garage. And since we weren’t home, we were unable to turn the breaker back on.
Our storage freezer was in the garage. Our storage freezer with about 25 pounds of deer meat from the recent hunting season was in the garage. Without power. For three days. During a Minnesota May.
You can see where this is going.
By the time we got back, all 25 pounds had thawed and started to rot. Sadly, even though it was his deer meat, Jason had to work the next day. And with the stench of rotting muscle tissue coming from the garage, that meant I had to clean it up lest our neighbors assume we were serial killers.
It took me four hours to clean up the mess. Partly because all of the blood had drained out of the tissue and was molding in puddles in the freezer and across the garage floor. Partly because the smell was so bad I had to stop every 15-30 minutes to hurl or (as the day progressed and I had nothing left to give) dry heave.
Needless to say, I still can’t eat venison. I’ve given it the old college try, but as god as my witness, I just can’t do it. Truthfully, after the garage cleaning fiasco, it was a good three to four months before I could eat any kind of meat at all, and another couple of months before I could indulge in red meat. It just completely grossed me out.
I got over most of it. I can happily consume a steak or a hamburger. But don’t try to feed me venison. You wouldn’t like me when I eat venison.