Bear Grease - Ep. 191: THIS COUNTRY LIFE - Hunting and Fishing Food

Episode Date: February 23, 2024

What do you take with you when you're out in the woods to keep you from getting so hungry that you feel like your belly is rubbing a blister on your backbone? It's usually pretty basic for Brent when he can remember to take them. He's gonna share a story and some experiences on what he likes and how to make some fun memories while doing it. We're talking about Hunting & Fishing Food on this week's episode of MeatEater's This Country Life podcast. Connect with Brent and MeatEater MeatEater on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and Youtube Shop Bear Grease MerchSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

First Lights fieldwear collection is made for the work that happens long before opening day and continues when the season ends. Products built for early mornings, full days in real use. Hard wearing where they need to be versatile where it matters. No shortcuts. Just gear designed for the work that earns the season. Built to perform, built to last. Check out. First Light's new fieldwear gear at firstlight.com.

Welcome to This Country Life. I'm your host, Brent Reeves. From Coon Hunting to Trotlining and just general country living, I want you to stay a while as I share my stories and country skills that will help you beat the system. This Country Life is proudly presented as part of Meat Eaters Podcast Network, bringing you the best outdoor podcast the Airways have to offer. All right, friends, pull you up a chair or drop that tailgate. I think I got a thing or two to teach you.

Hunting and fishing food. Taking groceries with you to get you through the day out in nature can literally be anything you can poke in your pockets. Now, we're going to talk about some of my favorites and how I've done it over the years, but first, I'm going to tell you a story. During the same time period of getting bitten by the copperhead, I talked about that on episode 147. If you hadn't heard it, you might want to take a listen. But me and my running partner, Wayne Parnell, decided to go fishing. at Lake Shiko near the small town of Lake Village in the southeast corner of the state. Lake Shiko is an old Oxbow Lake off the mighty Mississippi River.

It's the largest natural lake in Arkansas and get this. At three quarters of a mile wide and 22 miles long, that's 5,000 acres of surface water and it makes it the largest oxbow Lake in North America. The name Shiko comes from the French, French word for stumps, which is what those early explorers called the Cypress Knees that grew along the bank. Now, I've been tripping over Cypress Knees my whole life as I poorly navigate and stumble my way through existence. I've called them a lot of things, and I've heard them called others, and yet none of them were Sheikos. Which makes me wonder if that's a real French word, because lots of times when others have tripped on them and called them names, they'd follow that up with, excuse my French.

and none of those remotely rhymed with Chico. But speaking of Shiko, it's spelled C-H-I-C-O-T. And here's a pro tip for you. If you ever find yourself working undercover in Arkansas, the quickest way to let folks know you ain't from the natural state is to pronounce Shiko as Chiquot, El Dorada as El Dorado, and Nevada as Nevada. You're welcome.

Now, want some more interesting facts about Lake Shiko? Of course you do. Charles Lindberg took his first night flight over the lake in 1923. And if you're asking yourself who Charles Lindberg is, punch yourself in the jaw. Then go look up your history teacher and do the same. Now, 381 years before old Chuck was buzzing around the lake in his airplane, Hernando de Soto, the famed Spanish explorer who was credited with being the first European, to cross the Mississippi River, ceased to function as a living Spaniard,

and was buried near the lake which was still part of the river then. Sometime after the internment, his pallbearers got together and dug him up and chunked Hernando into the river, hoping to keep up the ruse of him being some kind of God to whom the native folks and started to grow suspicious of. Especially since it was a little out of character for the great and powerfuls to get sick and die. Anyway, Lake Chico was where me and Wayne Parnell found ourselves at the butt crack of dawn sliding an aluminum boat from the back of his truck into the water. We had an old, and I mean an old, 9-9 Johnson outboard motor and two paddles that would probably run faster, but also required more effort. We could fire that little Johnson up and cruise at top speed while almost creating awake as we cut across the surface and up Connerley Bayo,

to a spot that reportedly held some big slab croppy that we'd recently heard about. I feel compelled to address this croppy versus crappy pronunciation debate, but do I really need to? They're also called white perch, the pinnacle panfish of old men who wear Dickie's jumpsuits like a uniform, wield 12-foot jig poles with the dexterity of Zorro, and guard their favorite jig patterns and fishing spots like the formula for Coca-Cola. cola. Now, these folks had a cult like falling where I grew up. Is someone going to stand up

and say they'd rather catch and eat something crappy as opposed to crappy? I didn't think so. But hey, if eating something crappy is your thing, I bet you like pecan pie as opposed to pecan. A pecan is what we kept under the bed at my great-grandpaul's house. There was an outhouse off the back porch, but that's a different story. Wayne and I weren't croppy fishermen by any means, but we aspired to be. We were going croppy fishing after inadvertently receiving some intel from a couple of those jumpsuit-wearing old men we'd heard talking at Carl's one-stop. Carl's, as everybody called it, was a bait shop that was located on the edge of town in Warren, Arkansas. Mr. Carl Savage was the sole proprietor and had been as far as I knew it right after the mud dried up on the keel of Noah's boat.

But while we were in there buying various sundries to further our outdoor exploits, most notably 22 shells and skull, two items we never seemed to have enough of back then, we overheard some info. Loose lips sink ships, Papaw, and all is fair in love and war. When we overheard them describe the exact spot they'd caught an ice chest full of slab croppy two days ago and the color combination of jigs they used. We each made a mental note as we stared bug-eyed at each other like we just saw the mysteries of the pyramids. I glanced toward where they were holding court at that coffee table and on the wall in the wide open for all to see was a 12-inch by 12-inch card that was full of those colored jig patterns.

Sweet Jesus, this is going to be too easy. Not only had we overheard where they were fishing, also what they were fishing with. We added a jig pole and a double handful of those jigs along with the snuff and 22 shells and laughed all the way of the truck. The next morning we would light out before daylight for Lake Shiko and Connelly Borrow. It was hot that summer, and in the south when it's hot, it seems like it's double hot on the lake unless you're running around in a bass boat at 90 miles per hour or jumping into water every now and then to cool off. And we were doing neither. We were put-putting up to bow to the tune of a motor that sounded more like a singer's solar machine,

sweating like we were on a chain gang and feeling no relief from the heat. I looked at the ice chest sitting between us. I realized then that I hadn't thought to bring any water to drink, and we hadn't stopped for ice in our rush to get through the hour-long drive it took to get to the lake. Now, that was no wano. I looked back at my pal from the front of the boat, his hand was. on the tiller, sweat soaking through his t-shirt and asking if he brought anything to drink. A frustrated look came across his face and he said, man, I forgot the water jug.

That was also no-bueno. Tally one more to the no-bue list when I opened the sack of snacks that I'd brought from home. I've been carrying it several times on different outings of the past few weeks and thought I'd only eaten sparingly from its contents. Staring sadly into that warm, and wrinkled sack I inventoried four cans of sardines and two sleeves of soda crackers that looked like a saltine jigsaw puzzle that was gonna be our vittles along with whatever we bought at the store when we stopped for ice but for some reason that store was closed when we drove by that morning in half a turb fashion I kicked that ice chest that set between us and heard some cans roll around in it

ah bingo we had something to drink after all they might be hot soda waters but it was going to beat not having anything to drink. It was still early, but the heat was oppressive, and I was ready to quench my thirst, and so was Wayne. You ready for something to drink? Wayne nodded his head and held out his hand. I opened the ice chest, and I saw five Budweiser beer cans that had been rolling around in that ice chest so long

that the cans were almost solid silver. Now, if you're keeping score, it's time to chalk up another, that's no Bueno. I looked at Wayne and said, Whose eyes chest is this? He said, I don't know. I got out of the back of your truck. Now, that might sound strange to some,

but believe me, at this juncture of my existence, I wasn't fully vaccinated against hijinks and poor decision-making. I do not condone or promote these actions to adults, much less 19-year-old hooligans who may or may not have occasionally patronized one of the local bootleggers. but at a social gathering the night before our fishing trip someone had traded ice chest with me I must confess that mine also held a quantity of adult beverages

and while in the eyes of the law I wasn't looked upon as being an adult it seems I also went out of my way not to act like one but the ice chest also had some cold drinks in it that weren't manufactured in Milwaukee and that's what we planned on having with us on the lake that day along with the water jug that Wayne forgot. So there we were, hot, thirsty, and hungry, and the only remedy being 94-degree room-temperature red rocket Budwisers,

fish from a can, and crackers that had been abused to the point of looking more like cornmeal. Mr. Leon, an old veteran I've talked about many times, told me about being so thirsty in World War II that he drank from a mud hole on the island of Saipan that had wiggle tails swimming around in it. Now, I've never experienced that kind of thirst, but right then I felt like I was as thirsty as I'd ever been in my life. It was horrible and delicious at the same time, horrible that we were eating the sardines

to wash the hot beer taste out of our mouths and delicious in the sense that we at least felt like we were hydrating ourselves when in reality we were doing the exact opposite. Doing the exact opposite of the correct thing. thing to do would be a template I'd occasionally struggle with in the coming years, but I never went fishing again without making sure I had a water jug. Speaking of the fishing, we didn't catch a fish, not one. We suffered through the hot beer, sardines, and cracker crumbs, and lost nearly every jig we'd bought at Carl's fishing in a submerged

tree top that was stealing jigs from us faster than we could drop them in there. Wayne wound up breaking his jig pole. We'd suffered greatly and then never caught a fish. We went home defeated. Two or three years later, I was telling my dad that story while he and I were fishing one day. He started laughing, and he said, I'll never forget it. You big dummy, those old men tricked y'all into buying all that stuff. How many folks do you know that talk out loud about where

they're catching cropy, down to the exact, specific place they were. And if those jigs were so good, how come them old men hadn't done balt them all? I thought about what he was saying as he said it, and it became crystal clear that he was right. That was 38 years ago, and I'm sure those old fellas have passed on long ago. I'm also sure they got a big kick out of that, even though they didn't know the full measure of our folly. Now, had they known, they might have felt sorry for us and taking us with them one day. But, but they got us. And that's just how that happened. On Blood Trails, the stories don't end when the hunt is over. They just get darker. I've seen something in the road. I instantly thought it was a sleeping bag. And there was a

full of blood. Oh my God, he doesn't have a hit. Blood Trails is a true crime podcast born in the outdoors where the terrain is unforgiving, the evidence is scarce, and the truth gets buried under brush and silence. Indications were he should be right there, but he wasn't. This season, we're going deeper, from cold case files to whispered suspicions,

from remote mountains to frozen backwoods. Each story begins in the wilderness and ends in darkness. because out here there are no witnesses, no cameras, just fragments and the people left behind trying to piece them back together. He's not an honest person. He's incapable of being honest. Somebody somewhere knows something. I'm Jordan Sillers. Season 2 of Blood Trails premieres April 16th.

Follow now on Apple, Iheart, YouTube, or wherever you get your podcasts. When I'm hunting and fishing, I'm usually hunting and fishing for something to eat. That's part of the drive that makes me want to leave the house before breakfast for just about everything I chase, except Coons. That's an endeavor that starts after supper, and when it gets dark, and the night creatures begin to stir. I also don't shoot every Coonwee tree or eat every coon. I do shoot.

But you can bet, though, if I knock one out of that tree to get his hide, that someone will benefit from that naked coon. I know lots of folks that like to eat them, and I'm included in that group. And back in January, I was at an event where me and a gymnasium full of like-minded souls did our best to wreck 900 pounds of smoked banditos. I even shot a small video on my Instagram of how I cooked one myself a couple weeks ago, so check that out if you're interested. Now, that's a cooking only video, not a meat cleaning video. There are four glands that have to be removed before cooking one, and I'm going to video that pretty soon. But unless you're toting a skillet and some grease,

you, you're probably stowing some snack girls in your pocket for when the hunger pains hit later on. There's always some go-toes like jerky and fruit and granola and trail mix and such, but my experience has always been somewhat limited to either homemade ham and sausage biscuits, bloney sandwiches, or what was a staple at our house when you didn't have time to make something better. And that was crackers and cans of beanie weenies, potty meat, and viny sausages. I know, I know. I didn't say Vienna. Well, long before I had any idea there was such a place as Austria, much less Vienna,

those little round cans of meat of goodness were referenced as Vaina sausages. I don't know what the problem is. It says it right there on the can, V-I-E-N-A, V-I-N-A, Vaina. And even with it so clearly defined and printed on the label, the folks in my circles have managed to further malign that pronunciation to Vaini. Anyway, there's other things to consider as well when you're poking some grub in your pockets before hitting the woods. Like environmental factors. Hot and cold can have more than a preservative influence on what you plan to eat later on.

A case in point references a can of Vainis. Many moons ago, me, my brother Tim and Andy Johnson, the proud of Dallas County, Arkansas, were duck hunting in the Saline River bottoms. It was cold, and we'd had a pretty good morning to shooting ducks in the flooded timber when the mid-morning lull rolled in. Now, you duck hunters know what I'm talking about. The initial early morning flights peter out,

and there's a break in the action for a little bit. And that's when the folks start hitting the bushes to turn some coffee loose, mess with the decoys, or start scrounging around looking for something to eat. I asked, and if he was hungry. He said he was about to starve, slap to death, but also he didn't bring anything. No worries, mate, we got you covered.

I hollered at him to check the grub box in the boat. The grub box was an old Army surplus 50 caliber ammo can that had a lock and waterproof lid. He walked over and dug around a minute or two and chunked me two cans of ames in rapid succession. I cracked one open with some cold hands revealing the little nubs of meat bathing tastefully in clear gelatinous gaubs of goose. and I handed Andy the can and he handed it right back. And I said, I thought you was hungry. He said, I am. I said, you don't like Vianis?

He said, I ain't ever been bad about eating anything what had salve on it. Too bad, Andy. More for me and Timmy. So was Andy really hungry? I dare say he wouldn't. My buddy Michael Roseman turns his nose up at potted meat. He also won't eat coon or drink coffee, but he loves squirrels. There's just no accounting for taste as the saying goes.

Speaking of taste, what about them vanies and potted meat? What is the flavor? They're both made from chicken and pork and beef, but to me they don't taste like any of them specifically. The taste is uniquely their own, and if you eat a large portion of them over a long period of time, you'll get to see what anesthesia tastes like when they do your heart bypass. Apparently, the goodness found in those little meat sticks

The clabbered goodness is baked with more fat than protein, so you better off to partake only in moderation and on those special occasions. Like tonight, when Michael and I hit the woods with our four-legged coon haters, I'm bringing the snacks. My baby girl Bailey loves the snack when we're hunting, and I think one of her favorite parts of the hunt is planting and stocking up before we start. That's always her job. We were talking about the subject of this podcast on the way to school this morning, and I asked her what her favorite hunt snack was. M&Ms and Dr. Pepper was her immediate response. But before we'd gone a mile, that had shifted to peanut butter crackers

before settling in on Cheeto puffs. The only constant was the Dr. Pepper, probably because she's only allowed one of those a week. But you know that's something else that can involve the little ones, especially if they're just going to observe. and not actually pulling the trigger and that's getting all the groceries ready for you'd go. Sometimes the night before we'll make sandwiches or make some biscuits and sauces together and I'll let her do most of the preparation.

It gets them involved and includes them in the experience when my son Hunter was big enough to go with me and until he left home, sometimes we'd hunt all day. Even if we were close to home, we'd get down and walk back to a spot where we parked and build a fire and cooked deer burger with potatoes and onions and aluminum foil in the coals of the fire. It adds another element to the experience of sharing a meal or even just a snack. Remember the grub box that was an old Army ammo can? Well, my brother Tim and I used to put sleeves of crackers and cans of goodies in them, several of them. Everything that I've talked about here, including smoked oysters and sardines,

and we'd bury them in various places before turkey season started while we scouted around through the bottoms. Then when we found ourselves in a particular place that had one of our food caches weeks later, and us in need of a little snack, we'd dig it up and eat. It was fun. And on the hunch that we didn't kill a turkey but got hungry enough to go find one of the grub boxes we'd hidden throughout the woods, and I remember those just as fondly as the ones where we did tow the turkey home. I can't count the times I've taken just a thermos of coffee and an apple and sat on the side of the little red river while fly fishing with friends and just enjoyed the conversation and the peace and quiet of the rolling river. Man, it'll feed your soul just as well as it'll feed your belly.

It's not so much what you're eating that's important, but who you're eating it with. The best part, especially with kids, is you don't have to be hunting or fishing. Just plan a time to take a hike, riding a boat, whatever. Pack some groceries of any kind and go make an outing of it and eat in the woods. It never ceases to amaze me how much better a hot dog taste cooked over a fire the further you are from home. That all about do it. I hope you've enjoyed it and I hope you'll get out with someone you don't mind sharing a can of vienies with

and add an additional element to your experience. be surprised as time goes by how many of those times until next week this is Brent Reeve signing off y'all be careful on blood trails the stories don't end when the hunt is over

they just get darker I've seen something in the road I instantly thought it was a sleeping bag and there was a full of blood oh my God he doesn't have a hit blood trails is a true crime podcast born in the outdoors where the terrain is

Forgiving, the evidence is scarce, and the truth gets buried under brush and silence. Indications were he should be right there, but he wasn't. This season, we're going deeper. From cold case files to whispered suspicions, from remote mountains to frozen backwoods. Each story begins in the wilderness and ends in darkness. Because out here, there are no witnesses, no cameras, just fragments and the people left behind trying to peace. them back together. He's not an honest person. He's incapable of being honest.

Somebody somewhere knows something. I'm Jordan Sillers. Season 2 of Blood Trails premieres April 16th. Follow now on Apple, Iheart, YouTube, or wherever you get your podcasts.