Squirrel for tea

The workshop looked like something out of a game cookbook photoshoot; 2 brace of pheasant, 4 partridge, a solitary wild duck and a couple of pigeons swung by their feet, tied to the beam with baler twine awaiting an orgy of plucking. The feathers flew, the innards, heads and feet went in the rubbish and the freezer contents swelled. Something of this sort happens nearly every other weekend in the autumn and winter as the local farmer's Saturday shoot surplus finds its way to our door. Fantastically tasty and free meat - what more could you ask? Our stalwart providers said they took their hats off to us - that we were seemingly prepared to eat anything. Some distant memory of Hugh Fearnley-Wotsit eating squirrel resurrected itself - we've not tried squirrel yet we said. Two weeks later a very smiley face appeared carrying a very fat example of the breed; I suspect it had been their particular challenge that week to find us something new to tackle. A chubby grey squirrel that looked more like a stuffed toy than a food source sat on the chopping board and soon looked like a small skinned rabbit. We casseroled it in the luscious apple and calvados gravy left over from the previous night's pheasant. It smelled nice. It tasted fine. But it had the texture of an unreconstructed rubber tyre/wellie boot. The fact that the shotgun pellets had all collected under the skin and not penetrated into the muscle should have been more than a hint; the wee beastie was not so much fat as mature, I suspect.