Eating Peter Rabbit

WARNING

This post contains a description of how to skin and prepare a rabbit for cooking, with website links to graphic instructions which some people might find distressing. So, if you are of a gentle nature or vegetarian and do not wish to be upset, please do not read any further...

Sure? Then I will begin.

We are having some blessed sunshine, and there is no better time to go for a spin than early Sunday morning, when you are pretty assured of having the countryside to yourself for a couple of hours. Hercules and I set off and headed for the biggest hill in the area. Which naturally we walked up; we are not entirely foolish. All around us could be heard the drones of farm machinery, as the farmers took advantage of the rare heat to catch up with baling and harvesting.

It is well worth the effort of getting to the top - I may be biased, but for me this is the most spectacular view over England, looking towards the Ridgeway. For full panoramic glory, click on the pic and use the magnifier (and you didn't have to walk up the darned hill to see it either!)

After the climb, the reward and we pootled down into lush high banked lanes, while butterflies giddied about the hedgerows. Passing a farm, I noticed a sad little form in the road - a young rabbit, stone dead - obviously hit by a vehicle and very recently, as its eyes were bright and clear, and there were no flies yet. There were no external wounds, apart from the tell tale trickle of blood from its mouth. Since our adventures with plucking pheasants, I have often wondered if I had it in me to prepare a road kill rabbit. I thought not. I like rabbits, and they frequently turn up in my artwork, as toys. It seemed one step too far. And yet...and yet, it was a fat little fellow, and as usual my household budget is tight. I'm on about 25 pounds a week, maximum, so a free meal is to be welcomed.
I am fine about buying rabbit from the butcher, surely I should be able to get over my distaste and pick up an already dead, free range rabbit, which must have had a pretty decent (if short) life. Because if not, then I am simply being silly and indulging in anthropomorphic associations with such lovable characters as Peter Rabbit - whose father, if you remember, ended up in a pie made by Mrs McGregor. And all too often we glibly buy nicely prepared meat off shop shelves, packed in plastic trays and bearing little resemblance to its origin - I am with Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall on this. Know what you are eating and be aware of the sacrifice an animal made for you.



So into Hercule's basket went Mr Bunny and we continued our journey, with the sun beating down on one side and the waning moon, half empty, still high in the sky on the other. A black cat crossed our path, and I occasionally put out a hand to stroke Mr Bunny, his fur soft as a kittens. I felt glad that he must have had a lovely morning; up with the dawn, lolloping about in the summer fields, gorging on sweet grass and then, one quick blow to the head, which must have killed him instantly and so on to the next life. Many of us would wish for such a swift and merciful end.

I still wasn't looking forward to getting him ready for the pot though. My mother once told me that she could skin a rabbit; I was quite young at the time, but it has stayed with me and I like the idea of being able to do something she could. (She could also shear a sheep, but I'm not going to try that just yet). As we neared home I spied some gorgeous allotment lettuces for sale at a house, and picked up a fat iceberg, a luscious lollo rosso, and a juicy butterhead, costing me a grand sum of 90p for all three.

So, time to bite the bullet. Thank Heavens for the internet and I quickly found highly detailed instructions on how to field dress a rabbit. The first thing to do was to empty its bladder, as the urine taints the meat. I used to have to do this to a sick cat of mine, (as instructed by the vet), so that was quite easy and there was barely anything in there anyway. Then following my computer print out, I gutted him. This was quite easy - I have to say, once you get over the fact that you have your hand stuck in a load of fresh offal, you are over the hurdle and the rest is plain sailing. Most of the gutting is done with the hand, apart from the first small incision below the ribs, so as not to burst the organs and contaminate the flesh. Once you have torn the skin from under the ribs to the bottom, you can pull the head back towards the back legs, give a sharp shake and they fall out naturally, needing only a few small cuts to detach them from the body. I called for Clover, our top matriarchal cat and she devoured the raw heart and liver - there is something primeval about our darling girl, especially when she has blood round her furry little chops. I am sure in a previous incarnation she was a Celtic warrior queen.

Next, to skin it - this is simply a matter of getting your hand between the skin and the flesh and peeling the two apart, cutting off the limbs, tail and head and washing the body in cold water. From start to finish, twenty minutes, barely any mess, minimal smell (certainly less than the pheasants) and not as horrifying as I had imagined. The end result was exactly the same as anything I have bought from the butchers and I felt quite pleased at having gotten over my initial squeamishness. At this very moment, what was once Mr Bunny is in a pot, in the fridge, marinading in savoury herbs, garlic and white wine vinegar. Tonight he will go in the slow cooker. Recipe for rabbit casserole to follow.