The Tradition We Want

Deer hunting and venison recipe {Swedish meatballs}

Convoys of pickup trucks hitched to trailers creeped through town, headed for the highway. Opening weekend of rifle season brings in the out of towners hoping to fill their coolers with venison. It was now Monday, and most were heading back south. I could feel our small-town breath out a deep exhale. 9 more days of rifle season for the folks who call this neck of the woods home.

Deer season is not only an event but a Northwoods tradition. The weekend before Thanksgiving, our town turns orange, a color that easily stands out from the browns and greys of the late autumn landscape but is undetectable to the white tail deer.

When we moved to Wisconsin a few years ago, we wanted to make an effort to live in tune with the seasons, our region and with nature. We also wanted to cultivate our separate interests related to sustainability to mutually benefit our life on the homestead. My main interests being, food production, herbalism, cooking and animal husbandry while my husbands are building, fixing, hunting and fishing.

We both agree that venison on Thanksgiving is, as we put it, a tradition we want. So, up the 30-foot ladder my husband climbs, rifle slung over his shoulder.

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Day before Thanksgiving

2:55pm

26F

Snowflakes swirl in a chaotic, disjointed pattern. The west wind hits the house in violent waves. I think about my husband high up in a tree, sitting in a shaky deer stand.

My phone vibrates on the bed my son is joyfully jumping on. I reach for it while holding my sleeping daughter in my arms. I read the words I’ve been waiting for.

Deer is down.

From the kitchen window we set up post to watch my husband emerge from the woods with his kill. I see his orange vest first; his back is to us. He is moving slowly, pulling the large doe by the back legs. I can see he field dressed her already. He heads for the open pole barn where a hoist is waiting. The wind and snow are no longer as threatening. I’m grateful for the cold. The deer can hang and tenderize without us worrying about it going bad.

My son is running for his snow pants, pulling on layers of mismatched snow gear. I let him loose and watch him from the window waddle through the snow to the pole barn.

The wind has died down, and the sky has turned dark. I hear the basement door slam and little feet bounding up the steps. My husband’s heavy footsteps follow. In his arms he has a bag of fat, that I will make into tallow candles. Another bag holds the prized tenderloins. With a smile he hands me a bloodied paper towel like a baton. I unwrap a perfectly intact heart.

We don’t always get to eat the heart because a bullet through it would make it inedible. It’s a mild tasting organ meat with a texture similar to tongue. My son loves it.

I begin by rinsing the heart well under cool water. Blood runs down my hands and swirls around the sink drain. I grab a sharp filet knife and begin my cuts. I start by cutting the arteries off. It’s easy to feel because it’s a hardened area. After that I slice the heart in half and cut out the connective tissue. The knife runs smooth through the meat in a satisfying way. I feel familiar strong arms wrap around me. He whispers, “we did it.” I smile and think, I’m so grateful that he sees this as a team effort even though I wasn’t out in the cold up in a deer stand with him.

For the night I let the two pieces sit in salted water in the refrigerator to further pullout blood and any metallic taste. For breakfast the next day I planned to slice the heart thin, season well and pan fry in bacon fat.

The rest of the night is quiet and peaceful. My husband tells me he said a prayer of thanks over the deer out in the woods. I like that. The connection we have to our meal makes us bubble over with gratitude. It’s a feeling I truly wish everyone could feel. Sadly, a lot of people prefer to live a disconnected life from nature thinking that it is better to shelter themselves from death. The consequence is missing out on the full experience. A meal becomes sacred, a way to glorify God. I really couldn’t think of a better animal for us to eat on a holiday that is all about having a heart of thanks.

We talk some more, and he asks me what I have planned to make with some of the venison. I tell him Swedish meatballs have been on my mind ever sense the cold weather moved in. The nostalgic warmth of allspice and nutmeg, the rich, sour cream gravy, it’s a dish that channels my Scandinavian ancestors. Venison is a popular meat in Nordic countries, and I prefer it over beef in this instance for its non-greasy feel.

Venison Swedish Meatballs

Prep Meatballs:

In a food processor blitz up two pieces of sourdough bread and one peeled garlic clove. Move garlic breadcrumbs to a medium sized bowl and add 1/2 cup of milk. Let this sit for 10 minutes to soften the breadcrumbs. Next, add 1/4 each of nutmeg and allspice along with 1/2 tsp salt, 1/8 tsp (pinch) pepper and 1lb of ground venison. Mix until combined. Form into 12-14 balls. Do not overmix. Place on a plate, pie pan or baking rack. Cover in plastic and refrigerate for 2-4 hours.

Preheat oven to 425F. Drizzle meatballs with olive oil and roast for 15-25 minutes or until internal temperature is 135F. Meanwhile, make the gravy.

Sour Cream Gravy:

Start by bringing a 3qt pot of water to a boil. In a 12–14-inch cast iron skillet, melt 4tbsp butter. Then add 3 tbsp flour and whisk to make a roue. Salt boiling water and add 2-3 cups egg noodles to boil. Save cooking water. To roue, pour in 1 1/4 cup warm beef broth and whisk until smooth. With sauce at a simmer, pour in 1 cup heavy cream. Do not boil. Mix in 1 heaping tbsp of sour cream, a pinch of pepper, 1 1/4 tbsp salt (I use Redmond’s Real Salt) and 1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce. Take meatballs out of oven. Add to sauce along with a tbsp or so of pan drippings. Combine with noodles and enough pasta water to make it creamy (around 1 cup) Enjoy!

Venison Swedish Meatballscaption...