It was a romantic dinner. Candlelight. A fire crackling in the woodstove, splashing orange shadows on the walls of the old ranch house. A decent Malbec. Some tunes.
And chukar. Sauteed in olive oil with an excellent mild curry paste added on low-simmer. Red peppers, cloves of garlic, slivers of sweet onion. Served on a bed of rice. Delicious white, wild meat, spiced just right. A most successful evening.
A week later, my old die-hard bachelor habits resurface. I dig in the refrigerator, find the remnants of that spectacular meal. I’d sent half home with my lady and she prudently ate it the very next day for lunch. My half I forgot about and now, like a treasure discovered at a garage sale, it resurfaces. Eureka! I’m not shoveling in microwave popcorn after all.
When was that meal anyway? I wonder, asking my canine friends. They don’t remember. Surely this has still got to be good, right? They agree. Offer to eat it for me.
Without female wisdom this night to guide me, I dive in.
I can put it on a tort! Melt some cheese! Dab a little Indian hot relish to top it off!
And so I do. And it turns out well. Nearly as delicious as the first time, with only the lovely company lacking.
Two hours later, a rumble. Hark! What was that? Distant thunder. A crack of gastric lightning! Silence rent with a sound much like a stepped-on frog. From under. Fumunder. What?! I’m tore up. Battered in a bile hailstorm!
I sprint from bedroom to bath and fling porcelain out of my way. An explosion! Then silence. A thunderclap!! Another! What?!
Two hours later, I shiver and sweat in bed, timidly sipping water, awaiting the next distant rumble and thinking: Goddamndable chukar partridge. Even in the off-season, they win. Little bastards.
Mouthful of Feathers 
If I were a chukar I’d be pointing a finger at the curry paste and Indian hot relish.
BTW Tom, I got a copy of Give Me Mountains For My Horses for Christmas and really enjoyed it.
Ahh yes, the green chukar quick steps.
In case anyone is wondering, the refrigerated shelf-life of Venison Carne Guisada is also just less than a week.
Time & temperature, my friends. The matrix of success is so easy to learn, the results of not learning…tragicomic.
40 degrees-140 degrees, 2 hours total in that zone. 165 degrees for 15 seconds when reheating.
wow i would of ate it too. i have been told i have an iron stomach. better luck next time.
Revenge of the chukar!
I’ve seen that graceful Reedian sprint after a bit too much of “musta been something I ate”. Watch out you don’t step on a dog!
Haunting and taunting, That’s all a chukar can do to man to show there distaste for us. Oh, and, of course, the thunder they create after being locked up in the refer for a week with indian chutney. Glad you made it though TR.
Haven’t been there with chukar, but years ago my Dad and I, batching it, did some freezer diving and came up with some tamales of indeterminate age. While they tasted fine, I’ve never looked at them quite the same after spending the following morning at a KD Highpower match doing my level best not to puke all over my rifle during the prone stage. Nothing quite as bad since then, but I know that dance you describe.