I'm not a pheasant plucker

Over the past few days, a culinary idea has been taking shape in the house and has had us all in varying degrees of anticipation. It's an old family favourite of Betty's and its preparation takes a lot longer than 90 seconds on high in the microwave. Yes friends, I'm talking about game pie. Its preparation is a labour of love; a time-honoured tradition in Betty's family dating back to the time of Christ. Okay maybe not that far, but at least one or two generations. And she is a brilliant cook, manufacturing everything from the pastry to the filling. No store-bought dinner here, folks.

Back in Australia, my experience of game was limited to venison, which I love. Nothing better than the venison pies at the Mount Compass bakery on the way to Victor Harbor, as many Adelaideans would agree. So when game pie was first mentioned as a menu item, I was quite pleased. Little did I realise that local game pie is exactly that - stuffed to the crust with whatever game is local to the area.

In a few days time we'll be feasting on a pie containing rich meaty chunks of pheasant, pig, AND chicken. There may be some vegetables in there to fend off complete arterial shutdown, but there has been no confirmation of this.

I've been going out to hang my washing on the line, and walking past the deep freezer, ontop of which has been defrosting a scraggly looking pheasant. I don't believe it was the same pheasant that flew into the backyard the other week and then ogled Batreg and I from outside the kitchen window. All the same, I couldn't resist giving it a little prod with my finger the other day. Nothing happened. The next time I see it, will be under mountains o'meat and rich, lip-smacking gravy.

Score check: Me 1; Pheasant 0. It's only a game, after all.