
When I killed my first mule deer, I felt deep reverence for the animal. It showed me hunting can be more honest and sustainable than eating factory-farmed meat
“Murderer! You’re a murderer!”
That is what my French mother shouts down the phone line – right after I tell her I had grouse for dinner.
“Grouse?” she gasps.
“Yes,” I say, using my nonchalant voice. “We went hunting and shot two of them. Plump ones. I braised them in a mushroom broth and served them with stewed apples and potato mash.”
She shrieks.
“I can’t believe you killed an animal!”
“Mom! Didn’t you just make lamb tagine?”





The cash is burning, too.






