Years ago, I lived in Buenos Aires with an Argentine couple. I remember that they always had an entire cow tongue in the refrigerator. It had taste buds and everything. They would cut it up and eat it on bread as a sandwich. At the time, I was young and could not imagine eating tongue. I never tried the tongue and that was a mistake. Things have certainly changed.

I believe that it is unethical to kill an animal and not use as much of it as possible. My husband and I do not believe in sport hunting, or even slaughtering an animal and only taking choice pieces. If you kill it, you eat it.

Every year, we work with a local rancher to purchase a cow. We pick up the live cow from the rancher and drive it to the processor. We discuss how we want the animal to be processed, in detail, with the processor. Throughout the years, we have stopped using numerous processors who steal bones or did not provide us with our entire animal. If we pay for it, we expect to receive the animal.
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While this is a very principled position, it also leads to a lot of interesting cuts of meat, including cow tongue.

​I am sure there a lot of ways to prepare cow tongue (aka “lengua”), but here is what we recently did. We placed the entire tongue into a crockpot while it was still frozen. Then, we strained stewed tomatoes that I had canned in the fall and put the tomatoes on top of the tongue. You could substitute store-bought stewed tomatoes. We seasoned it with salt, pepper, oregano, rosemary, and fresh chopped garlic. We cooked it on low for the day.

It is important to remove the taste buds after the tongue is completely cooked. Leaving the taste buds and skin on the tongue will create a rubbery texture that is unappetizing. You can easily slice the taste buds off using a knife and it will peel in large sections.

Cut the tongue into pieces similar to a pork tenderloin. Serve the tongue on polenta or couscous with a salad. Be sure to scoop the tomatoes on top of the tongue as it has an amazing flavor.

With the left-over tongue (because there is sure to be some), we have made lengua street tacos. Cut the tongue into small pieces and sautéed it in oil. This allows the tongue to have a charred or crunchy edge. Heat two corn tortillas per taco on the gas stove. Place the lengua on the tortilla, add pinto beans, freshly cut white onion, and cilantro. Serve with a lime wedge.
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It is uncommon for American households to serve tongue, but it is truly a delicacy. A cow tongue produces at least two meals and is often discarded. In a time when people are hoarding toilet paper, should we really be throwing away deliciously edible parts of animals?

This was my first year elk hunting. I have been on elk hunts with my husband in the past, but this was my first year carrying a gun. I did not draw a tag, so I bought an over-the-counter second season bull tag. (Translation: “I have to kill a male and can only do it between October 24-November 1”).  My husband bought a third season bull tag (Translation: “He has to kill a male between November 7-13”).

Before our hunts, we spent days scouting and driving remote high mountain roads looking for elk habitat. We marked areas that had water and south facing meadows using On X. 

My season was interrupted constantly by work obligations. Apparently, judges do not fully appreciate the implications of having a second season bull tag. We were able to hunt four days during my season, one of which it snowed the entire time.
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During my husband’s season, I went with him for four days as well. He did additional days, but that work thing had me going back into the office. In total, I was in the Rocky Mountains searching for an elusive bull elk for eight days in three weeks.

Then my husband's season started.  On day one, we woke up at 3:30 a.m. and we were on the road by 4 a.m. We drove for 2 hours to a mountain that stretched well over 12,000 feet in elevation. We hit a pretty brutal snow storm at about 9,000 feet. By that time, it was about 5:30 a.m. and still pitch-black outside. The road leading to the hunting spot was not maintained and therefore was not plowed. Here is a view from the windshield:

​We arrived to our parking spot at 6 a.m., only to realize that it was still too dark to leave the truck. We waited in the truck for 30 minutes, packed up our stuff, and headed out into the wilderness. For hours, we climbed to the top of a mountain through thick trees. We climbed over dozens of downed trees as the snow piled up. Throughout the morning, the wind picked up and so did the snow.

We hiked for about 4 hours in the blizzard and then returned to the truck to take a break. When I unzipped my “waterproof” Marmot Goretex jacket, copious amounts of water ran down the inside of the jacket. I was completely soaked. My base layers were wet too. I also realized, thanks to my observant husband, that the snow hit my jacket and ran down to my pants, creating a large wet spot in my crotch. It looked like I had peed my pants. That ended our morning hunt.

Later in the week, we decided to hike a local spot about an hour from our house. My husband alleged that the trail was about 2 miles uphill and then would open up to large meadows where elk might be. Again, it was puking snow and pretty cold. Despite that, I was feeling pretty optimistic as we left the truck and started up the trail.

The trail was single-track, exclusively up hill, and extremely difficult. Later, I Googled it and learned that it is rated as a black diamond, difficult trail. My husband left that part out.

We hiked for hours, silently, uphill, in the snow. At about hour 2, my husband turned around to check in on me. I whisper-yelled that I was starving. He looked me in the eye and said he was too. He then turned on his heel and continued up the mountain. To me, that seemed like a good time to stop and eat our sandwiches, but it was not my hunt.

We continued to hike for at least another half an hour and we finally made it to the meadow. I was so happy that we could finally have a drink of water and eat our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in silence (talking is not allowed). But, oh no, that did not happen. Husband Hunter spotted another meadow on top of another mountain that he wanted to check out. So, we continued climbing.

At this point, I strongly considered pushing him off the mountain, if only I could have caught up with him. Instead, I was limping along in the snow using a bipod as a hiking pole and cursing elk season. When we talked about this later, he claims that my chin was quivering around this time. That sounds about right.

We got to the top of the second mountain with the alleged "better meadow" and the wind was howling. I convinced Husband Hunter to get into the trees so we could eat our sandwiches. We ate, had a little water, and my desire to murder him subsided.

Then, we started on the return. However, we did not return down the same trail. Instead, we circled more meadows and ended up cutting our own trail for hours. We were sliding down steep, muddy, snow covered sides of the mountain and catching ourselves on aspens. Eventually, we found the trail and continued sliding all the way to the bottom.

The hike was 9 miles, took 5 hours, and was in 12 inches of snow. The trail started at 8,000 feet in elevation and we hiked over 1,000 feet up.

When we got back to our truck, we ran into a friend who is an experienced elk hunting guide. When we told him what we had done, he responded that “hiking is for the birds.” He obviously only goes up that trail with his horses.
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For my last day of elk hunting, we checked out a new area in the National Forest. Using On X, it appeared that there were many meadows where the elk might hang out. We started hiking and were really blown away by the beauty of the “meadows.”

​You see, those are actually massive rock piles covered in snow, and we had to hike through it. We fell numerous times and the snow was up passed our knees.

​At one point, Hunter Husband crashed really hard onto his tail bone and got his leg stuck between the rocks. I thought we were going to need a med evac, which would have been impossible. 

​Our elk seasons were a bust, as far as elk are concerned. We hiked, scouted, fell, climbed, cursed, and I might have whimpered a little. In total, we saw about 12 cow elk, but we had bull tags; cows don't count.  Elk hunting on public land in Colorado, by foot, is really challenging. It physically (and emotionally) pushed me more than I have been pushed in quite some time. It was disheartening, funny, and absolutely exhausting. I am glad that Hunter Husband and I got the opportunity to go on our elk hunts together, but I am not sure I am going to do it again next year. At the very least, I am only putting in for a fourth season cow tag (Translation: “I want an easier hunt”).

Okay, so I did not really try to call the pheasants during my first upland bird hunt, but I thought about it!

​In October, my husband, father-in-law, and brother-in-law went on our first pheasant hunt at Rocky Mountain Roosters (“RMR”). We drove seven hours over multiple mountain passes to arrive at our campground. When we left our house, it was 60 degrees and sunny; by the time we arrived at the campground, it was 15 degrees with 20 mile per hour winds. The plan was to shoot skeet at RMR that afternoon so we could get acquainted with the location and practice shooting.

​The weather had not improved by the time we arrived at RMR. Also, I did not bring any gloves for the hunt because I thought it was going to be 60 degrees and sunny.

​To shoot, we stood on a big wooden bridge that overlooked the skeet field, about ten feet off the ground. That did not help the wind situation at all. We took turns shooting and felt pretty good leaving RMR.

We went directly to Big R to buy appropriate winter clothes. Armed with new gloves and wool socks, I was ready to hunt! We woke up early the next morning and went back to RMR. We met our guide, Lee, and his two great dogs.

I had never hunted with a guide or with dogs. I was really nervous. The thought of accidently shooting a dog was absolutely terrifying. We started walking through the reeds and ravines looking for birds.

​My brother-in-law shot a pheasant within minutes of starting the hunt. It flew out of a bush right in front of him and he nailed it. It was his first kill ever!

We continued hiking through the field and I took a shot at a bird. Luckily, Lee was standing next to me. He suggested that I might want to shoulder the gun before shooting next time. I got so excited about the bird that I did not have the gun in the right position. Duly noted, Lee. I will start shouldering the gun.
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Throughout the morning, my husband and brother-in-law shot many pheasants and chukar. I took quite a few shots and then circled up with Lee. I told him that I had shot at a lot of birds in my life, but never killed one. He wisely pointed out that I should not be shooting “at” the bird, but instead in front of it. Right, Lee, good advice. I will start shooting in front of the bird. 

About halfway through the morning hunt, I shot my first pheasant! I was beyond excited. As a good guide, Lee had been carrying all our birds for us. But, I insisted that he put the bird into my (brand new) hunting vest. It had a special little pouch in the back for the dead birds and I absolutely was going to use it.

​After a little hesitation, Lee agreed to put the bird in my pouch. He then walked away to help someone else and I panicked a bit. The bird was flapping in my pouch. I thought it was going to fly away.
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So, here I am in the field yelling “Lee, the bird is alive! Help! It is going to fly out!” He came back over and assured me that it was dead and just twitching. Great, Lee, you are right again.

​After the hunt, we processed all the birds ourselves at RMR. There were feathers everywhere, but we left with about 15 processed birds. We have not cooked any yet but stay tuned.

​This was my first hunt where I killed an animal. It was really exciting, and I cannot wait to eat an animal that I killed myself. It is self-sufficiency at its best, even if Lee was a key component!

I live in a small town in the Rocky Mountains, many miles away from the nearest ocean. Needless to say, the options for buying fresh fish are limited. For the past two years, we have purchased fresh Alaskan salmon from Jake’s Alaskan Seafood Co. Jake is a local guy that fishes in Alaska every summer and brings his fish back to the Rocky Mountains.
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The fish that he brings back is absolutely amazing. As a result of purchasing bulk salmon two years in a row, we currently have quite a lot of salmon. We have been grilling it and it is delicious. But we were looking for other ways to cook the fish.

A few weeks ago, we decided to dust off our charcoal smoker and try to smoke some of Jake’s salmon. We do not have a fancy Traeger; we smoke our fish the old-fashioned way with charcoal.

We brined the salmon in 1 quart of cool water, 1/3 cup of kosher salt, and 1 cup of brown sugar. We submerged the salmon in the brine for at least 2 hours. Then, we removed the salmon and thoroughly dried it with paper towels. We placed the salmon on a rack to allow it to dry a bit more.

Then, my husband started the charcoal smoker with a huge propane torch. (I guess we are a bit impatient.) He filled a bowl inside the smoker with cedar kindling that we had cut from our property and added water. Within a few minutes, the smoker was ready for the salmon.
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We used soy sauce, honey, and red chile to create a marinade for the salmon. We placed the salmon onto the wire racks and basted it with the marinade. We then closed the lid to allow the smoking to begin. We kept the front door of the smoker slightly ajar to ensure the charcoal did not go out. 

Every hour, we opened the lid and basted the salmon. After 2-3 hours, we removed the salmon and it was perfect. It is smoky and delicious.

It was so good that we had to vacuum seal half of it to ensure that we did not eat it all in a day.
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Smoking the salmon has opened up a whole new way for us to enjoy Jake’s catch. Living in the mountains, you have to be creative in how you source your food (like buying in bulk from a local fisherman) and how you prepare it so you do not tire of the same food. 

With COVID, I may be turning into a hoarder. Okay, any time that I watch the news I declare that we need to buy an entire cow to stock the freezers and I have an uncontrollable urge to can any food that is in my kitchen.

Every year, I buy at least 40 pounds of tomatoes from the farmer’s market to can. Last year, I canned 80 pounds, which turned out to be quite a lot of tomatoes. Each fall, I visit the same women in the back corner of the local farmer’s market. They have a notebook where I write down my name, phone number, and what produce I want to order in bulk.

This year, my husband and I ventured to the farmer’s market with our masks on and I went to place my order. Overwhelmed with the crowd and mask, my husband decided to wait outside the market. I placed my order for tomatoes as usual, but then I think I blacked out (okay, not really). I saw that other people were ordering half bushels of green beans. Not to be outdone, I ordered an entire bushel of green beans. I walked away beaming with pride that I would have plenty of green beans.

Then I met back up with my husband. I declared that I had managed to pre-order a hoarder’s quantity of green beans. He was shocked that I would order a bushel and asked me if I knew how many green beans were in a bushel. I responded that I did not. I also did not ask how much a bushel of green beans would cost. Details, details…
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It turns out, a bushel is 40 pounds of green beans. My household consists of two people. Forty pounds of green beans is a massive amount. Also, I spent $80 on green beans, which is a pretty considerable amount for produce.

Once I picked up the 40 pounds of green beans, I panicked. I posted on Facebook that I had green beans for sale! A friend graciously took 10 pounds off my hands. I then canned the remaining 30 pounds. I made about 28 pints and 7 quarts of green beans. I followed the advice of the women from the farmer’s market and canned it with just water and salt.

Honestly, the green beans are delicious. They are thick and meaty. We are eating at least one jar a week and we are not sick of it at all.
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Maybe I will order a bushel and a half next year!

How to Can Green Beans

To can green beans, follow my instructions on how to can found here: https://www.kettleandcanyon.com/blog/canning-101

To prep the beans, wash the beans, cut off the ends, and cut the beans into your desired length. Place the beans in the jar and add boiling water. I used ½ teaspoon of salt per pint and 1 teaspoon of salt per quart. At my elevation, I processed the means at 15 psi for 20 minute for pints and 25 for quarts.

Happy canning!

I never expected to hunt anything, let alone a goose. But, when I did not draw the big game tags that I wanted, my husband and I switched gears. We bought shot guns and started teaching ourselves to bird hunt.

We started with goose. I thought it would be a simple task. Just walk around the lake, look for birds, and shoot them. Sounds easy, right? That is 100% not what happened. We started in full force when early goose season began in September. It was a short season – only 9 days. But, those 9 days felt really long; we were hunting for hours every day.

The weather was unseasonably warm. It was 90 degrees on most of our goose hunts. When I considered bird hunting, I envisioned tweed jackets and the leaves changing. Instead, I had 90 degrees, no water, sun burns, and absolute exhaustion. There were no knee-high brown leather boots and martinis after the hunt.

I learned that there are a few ways to hunt geese. Many people use a blind and sit quietly for hours. They use decoys and calls to lure the birds to them. After our Texas boar hunt in a blind, we decided to try a different method. We decided to “jump shoot.” Essentially, we hid in the bushes behind chamisas, or in the reeds, and would creep up on the birds. Once they started to fly, we would shoot them.
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During one hunt, we implemented a plan to launch a canoe onto a lake, tie our guns around our waists, paddle over to the birds, and shoot from the canoe. We got to the lake and saw a huge flock of geese. We hopped out of the truck and got our guns ready. It felt like our plan was fool proof.

My husband pulled out paracord that he had cut so that we could tie the guns to our waists in case the canoe capsizes. Well, I wore shorts without belt loops. Unimpressed, my husband found a small eyelet in my shorts and ran the paracord through the hole to secure my gun to my shorts.

We then carried the canoe, paddles, life vests, and guns down a really steep boat ramp. By the time we got to the bottom of the ramp, I already had blisters on my hands.

We launched the canoe and started paddling toward the geese. We paddled for a really, really long time. The lake was completely massive and we were exhausted. I did not pack any water or snacks, which is pretty much my main job while hunting.

Once we got near the geese, we realized that they were finicky and going to fly away from us before we could get into range. We then re-evaluated our plan. It was decided that I would get out and hike behind the geese and my husband would take the canoe around to the other side of the flock.

With this new plan, we were able to take a few shots at the geese, but did not hit any. By the end of the hike, I was completely exhausted, dehydrated, and a bit deflated. Also, we were on the opposite side of the lake from our truck. I started to walk out into the lake toward the canoe (and my husband) and immediately started sinking in the mud.

I was wearing shorts with boots and sinking fast in the thick mud. I was up to my knees in water and could not get my boots free from the mud. I fell over a few times into the water, but luckily held my shotgun over my head (remember, it was tied to my shorts). As I was struggling in the mud, I started to panic. I felt like I was not going to be able to get my feet free or that I was going to lose my boot. My husband was standing 15 feet away from me with the canoe watching this debacle. My eyes started to fill with tears and I declared that I was about to cry.
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He calmed me down quickly, talking me through how to free my boot from the thick lake mud. I was able to break free from the mud and get back into the canoe. We paddled across the larger-than-expected lake, carried all of our gear back up the steep boat ramp, and left goose-less. 

As we debriefed about our goose hunting adventure, I thought about how extremely difficult the hunt was for me. I was exhausted, sun burned, and embarrassed that I had nearly cried because I was stuck in the mud. Reflecting on the experience, I know that I would have lost all composure if I was presented with that situation ten years ago. But, I am a little older, calmer, and more determined than I once was and I am ready for the next goose season.

I also firmly believe that there is no crying in goose hunting. 

I grew up in a small farming community in the mid-west. Interestingly, I do not have a single memory of any woman in my family ever baking a pie. I am sure I had some highly qualified pie bakers in my extended family, but not my mother, aunts, sisters, or grandmothers.

In high school, I used to jokingly tell my mom, “Woman, go bake me a pie!” She would almost always respond with “Go bake your own damn pie!”

Looking back, baking pies represented everything that I did not want in my life. At that time, it represented being a woman in the kitchen, living a southern lifestyle. The stigma of baking pies was strong and negative for me as a kid, although I am not sure where I got that perspective.

Baking pies was the antithesis of how my parents raised me. I remember being in the fourth grade the first time my dad asked me where I wanted to go to graduate school. Fourth Grade. I left home at 18 and went to college, with big plans for my life. Throughout the next few years, I became fluent in a second language and lived in three foreign countries. I moved across the U.S. and started grad school at 22. By age 25, I had visited 25 countries. I felt very accomplished and far from my small town. I never felt the urge to bake a pie.

After grad school, my husband and I received a gift certificate from Williams-Sonoma as a wedding present. My husband bought a rolling pin. I remember blankly staring at him while thinking, “What in the hell are you going to do with that?” He said we needed it in case we wanted to bake. I remember rolling my eyes and thinking that was never going to happen.

This is my current go-to pie crust, courtesy of Food 52:
https://food52.com/recipes/78548-stand-mixer-pie-dough

Stand-Up Mixer Pie Crust

1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, refrigerated until right before you use it
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon of sugar
1 teaspoon of salt
1/2 cup of very cold water
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1. Chop the butter into pieces about ½ inch thick. Place the butter in the freezer when you prep the rest of the recipe.
2. Combine the flour, sugar, and salt in the stand-up mixer with the paddle attachment.
3. Add the pieces of butter and mix for 5-10 seconds.
4. With the mixer on low, pour the cold water in very slowly. (The ½ cup of very cold water is necessary at higher altitude. Use less water at sea level, more water the higher you are in elevation)
5. Mix until the dough is shaggy that holds together when squeezed.
6. Turn off the mixer, form the dough into a ball, and wrap it in plastic wrap.
7. Refrigerate for at least 1 hour. You can freeze it too (this actually turned out better for me).

I am back to the blog after taking a break for a few months. Since my last post, I have been biking, canning, camping, cooking, shooting, and perfecting a super simple spinach quiche (more on that later). I have been fully taking advantage of the work from home lifestyle due to COVID-19, but I missed the blog, so I am back! Keep reading for my recent experience with shotguns and shooting clay.
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“I do not want a shotgun.” Famous last words.

My husband recently bought an over-under with both 20- and 12-gauge barrels. He asked me (a hundred times?) if I wanted a shotgun too. I assured him that I absolutely did not want a shot gun and had no use for one.
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Then I went clay shooting in the National Forest. First, shooting in the National Forest is absolutely stunning. We go about 40 minutes from our house in the Rocky Mountains to this secluded field.

The first time I went clay shooting, my job was to throw the clay into the air using a hand held plastic throwing device while my husband tried to shoot the clay. That sounds super easy, right?

That was a complete disaster.

Half of the time, the clay did not even leave the thrower. So, my husband would yell “pull,” I would try to throw the clay and it would still be in the thrower. When it did leave the thrower, it was completely unpredictable as to where it would go. On one occasion, I actually hit my husband in the chest with one of the clay while he was armed with the shot gun. Upon reading the fine print on the box, apparently it is really dangerous to break a clay on someone's chest. 

At that point, it was decided that I would no longer be throwing the clay.

​We bought a small throwing machine instead. There is a foot pedal that you step down on and the clay shoots out like magic. I can easily step on the pedal and can adjust the trajectory of the clay. The throwing machine is absolutely a game changer. 

I never thought I would even shoot clay, let alone really like it. Within the past few months, we have spent quite a few Saturday afternoons in a field in the National Forest.

It is extremely calming and beautiful to be out in nature, especially with the state of the world right now. Even shooting the clay is calming. When I shoot my rifle, it is extremely loud and can be a bit jarring; when I shoot the 20 gauge shotgun, it is a much quieter and calmer.

I also really like that the shotgun shells are inexpensive. With my rifle, I am always thinking that each shot costs $3; with the shotgun, I can shoot for hours for a few dollars.

So, now I really do want a shotgun and to go bird hunting. I have already chosen the bird hunting preserve for a hunt in the fall. Stay tuned on the shotgun. 

My first kill is an important milestone in my new-found life in the Rocky Mountains. Now, you might be wondering whether my first kill was a deer, an elk, or maybe the Texas hogs that I so desperately wanted to shoot. No, my first kill was a domestic animal, owned by a friend.

Here is how it went down: Years ago, our friend Sarah offered to give us goats. My husband responded that we would gladly accept the goats so long as we could eat them. Sarah retracted her offer.

​Fast forward a few years, and Sarah found herself with problematic roosters. Specifically, the roosters were attacking her when she went to collect eggs. Initially, she tried to find a sweet, loving home for her roosters; in the end, she agreed to allow us to kill and eat them.

We drove to Sarah’s ranch in the middle of the day when she was not home. Luckily, Sarah had sent us two photos of the problematic roosters so we could identify them in the pen. There was no way I would have known which bird to kill without a photo lineup. My husband and I maneuvered our way through numerous gates and found the chicken coop. Soon enough, the targets were identified.

We decided that my husband would go first and capture the larger rooster. Sarah assured us that the smaller rooster was calmer. When he went to pick up the bigger bird, the smaller, so called “tamer” naughty rooster attacked him. The little one came out of no where like a spider monkey. 

We had to re-group. I decided to use a stick and play defense to keep the mean little one away so that my husband could take the bigger one. He removed the bigger one and did the deed.
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Now, it was my turn. I was really nervous. I carefully cornered the little feisty one and picked it up by its feet. I carried it out of the chicken coop and slit the rooster’s throat. 

I expected to feel remorse or sadness; but in reality, I felt relieved that the chicken was dead and it had not attacked me. The kill was very instinctual. I know that the rooster would not have seriously hurt me, but it felt like a battle nonetheless.

We collected our newly-dead roosters in a box and drove home to process our birds. 

Once we were done with the scalding water, we hung the bird on the patio. We used a ladder to hang the bird and placed trash bags under the bird to collect feathers. 

Some of the feathers were much easier to remove than others. As I clutched handfuls of wet bird feathers, water was flying in all directions. On more than one occasion, my face was soaked with dead bird water. The smell was difficult to describe: a combination of burnt hair and farm yard. I gagged more than once.
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​So, like any good millennial, I googled how to pluck a bird before we did mine. The internet quite correctly suggested rinsing the bird before scalding it and putting  a few drops of dish soap in the water. Absolutely brilliant. It was not nearly as stinky. 

After the birds were cleaned and plucked, my husband processed the birds. The roosters were clearly different sizes. We did not have a rooster recipe, so my husband made one up. He made a delicious Tandoori rooster dish by cutting up the roosters, adding spices, peppers, and onions and placing it into a Dutch oven. He slow roasted the rooster and served it with rice. It was stunning.

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Sarah's problematic roosters turned into an amazing adventure and a delicious meal.

​And, perhaps more importantly: my first kill.

I cannot explain what made me decide that I needed to smoke trout on Sunday. My husband and I had never smoked fish before and we had not been fishing in months. Maybe it was the three week quarantine, but I decided in that instant that we must do it and we must do it now.

I suggested we get our fishing poles and head to the lake, that exact minute. My husband stood still and stared at me while trying to figure out what I wanted to do and why it had to happen immediately. He very calmly pointed out that we already had 7 cleaned trout vacuum sealed in the freezer that we had caught in the fall. “Great,” I thought, “we can cut out the lake and go straight to smoking.”
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I started Googling how to smoke trout and was very disappointed to learn that you are supposed to brine the trout overnight. I wanted to just make up our own recipe and begin immediately, but my wise husband suggested we follow a recipe the first time we smoke fish. Good point, sir, good point.

So, I referenced Hank Shaw’s recipe for smoked trout  (here:honest-food.net/smoked-trout-recipe/) 
and brined the trout. I dissolved ½ cup of salt with ½ cup of brown sugar. I  also added a few dried chile, into a large bowl.

Although Hank suggested making the brine in one gallon of water, I just filled a large bowl with water and called it a gallon-ish. I was in a hurry to get to the smoking part and am not great at following recipes. 

I soaked the fish in the brine overnight in the refrigerator. In the morning, I rinsed the fish, patted it dry, and placed it on a turkey rack to dry. I placed the fish in the refrigerator for 4 hours.
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We then started firing up our smoker. We do not have a fancy, Traeger smoker. We have an “artisanal” charcoal smoker. We have been out of the charcoal game for a while, so it took some time to get the coals burning. At one point, my husband did use a large blow torch to start the coals. We are inpatient; what can I say?

Once our coals were going, we removed the fish from the refrigerator. Per Hank’s recommendation, we propped each fish open with a bamboo skewer to allow the smoke to enter the cavity of the fish.

Before placing the fish on the racks in the smoker, we cut some cedar kindling and filled a bowl in the smoker with the wood and some water. This created smoke and provided additional flavor for the trout.

We carefully placed the trout on the rack and closed the lid. Hank said we should smoke the fish for at least 90 minutes, and given our complete lack of experience on the subject, we decided to follow his lead.

After 90 minutes, we opened the lid to the charcoal smoker and were extremely pleased. The trout smoked beautifully and actually had a small amount of moisture inside the cavity.

We carried one fish inside to try it immediately. It was stunning. I wanted to eat all seven fish in that moment, but my husband's common sense prevailed. He was right that seven fish was a substantial amount of food.

Instead, we put a little cream cheese on pumpernickel bread and topped it with the smoked fish. We opened a bottle of white wine and celebrated our smoking success. The next day, we had smoked fish for lunch again and it was absolutely delicious.

Smoking the trout re-lit my desire to fish, and not only because it was so delicious. There is something really invigorating about learning a new cooking method and eating food that you caught yourself.

​Within a few days, we were on the lake fishing for more trout. I am more confident about smoking fish and next time will probably add more spices to the brine.
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Until then, keep on fishing.