The Great Gun Debate

I come from an anti-gun establishment - a household where even the purchase of a Super Soaker was scrutinized. Real or fake, in my family, purchasing a gun was out of the question. So as kids, we played the kind of non gun-toting make believe that always threw our friends for a loop when they came over.

Well ... we're not equipped to play cowboys and Indians here. Would you like to reenact the Johnstown Flood instead?

I did hold and shoot a gun - once. Riflery elective, session II of Calvary Camp, 1999. The sole reason I joined this elective was to have the counselor that I had a crush on help me handle my gun. But since I was the awkward 17-year old camper, I ended up getting no attention at my station, pulled the trigger, and launched a shot that missed the target, hit something else, and ricocheted, Christmas Story style, back at my lip. Blood dripping from my mouth was not the hippie hot look I wished to impress that day. I did finally get some attention from the cute counselor, but it wasn't the fawning kind - it was more medical and carried with it incredulous facial expressions that in so many words told me how moronic I was. 

Peter, on the other hand, would have been a Riflery ace. He didn't only grow up playing Cowboys and Indians, he had the tools and resources to stage bank robberies, war reenactments, and espionage thrillers. He collected pocket knives to forge trails through the uncharted parts of Bemis Woods Forest Preserve. His favorite section of any museum is the armory collection. And he hunts. Like puts on camouflage pants and hunts. 

So I live in a house divided by the gun debate.
He's for.
I'm against.
My rationale, and it's good enough for me: I'm scared of them; I've heard too many stories of accidents; And I don't see any reason why I should want or need to own one. The "yah" side of the equation thinks I need an education - that if only I knew a little more about them, I would immediately jump in line to register for a gun owner's license.

While I stringently held my ground, Peter instituted lesson one in my education this weekend.

Lesson 1 - The Goose


For the past eight months, ever since they deemed it warm enough to fly back to Chicagoland, the nearly domesticated River Walk geese have etched out their territory, Sharks verses Jets style, along the River Walk. They literally own certain parts of it, forcing pedestrians to run way off course, less they be maimed by these blood sucking geese. About four months ago they decided to mate with anything that flies, and soon enough they didn't just have a section, they claimed the whole thing. 

I f-ing HATE these geese. Every morning, they hiss, spread their wings, run at me, snap at me with their freaky beaks, and try to cross one more human off their most wanted list.

When Peter told me that he was going to go hunting for geese on Saturday, I became entirely present in the conversation. I started thinking that his gun might just come in handy. I asked if he was going to do it on the River Walk, which was apparently an inane question, but wherever he was going to do it, I figured it would be curbing the overpopulated population of the most annoying geese known to man.

Peter spent Saturday morning hunting with friends and Saturday night telling me about it.

His photos were stunning. Straight out of Field and Stream. And they actually made me want to see the world from a hunter's point of view sometime.

The troop shot ten geese and one duck. 

 

And I received four goose breasts. I don't want to know how, but they arrived deplumed, deskinned, and ready to prepare. And I have to admit, I thought, 'Now ... I will have my vengeance. Monday, we will have a roast goose feast.'

Yesterday, I marinated the breasts all day. Then in the evening, butterflied them, tenderized them, and rolled them up with a caraway seasoned apple, pecan stuffing. I roasted them at 350 degrees for about 50 minutes and served them with potatoes and pan gravy. 

It was good. Gamey. Hearty. Satisfying. Straight out of the Kings Crown Tavern in Historic Williamsburg good. And I was kind of happy that I had done my part to clean up the River Walk. 

I'm still not sold on the NRA and will continue to anticipate debates and lessons (which hopefully will have a squirrel or two in them.) But until it's finally cold enough for those damn geese to fly south and bother the old folks in Florida, I'm telling them to get out of my way because my husband's got a gun!

Lo.