A Bird in Hand: American Woodcock

​​An Experiment in Culinary Tradition and Hunting
by Fischer Jex

For myself and a few of my friends, the warm season begins and ends with a single bird: that nocturnal and elusive member of the sandpiper family known as the woodcock. After the late winter sugaring season we start our springtime woodcock walks, sneaking through forest and field in search of the male bird who has returned from the south to perform his dramatic mating display. Under the first budding stars of evening he will strut about making a nasal peent sound, then he shoots into the sky with a trill, circles and spiral-dances back to earth in a tumultuous aerial somersault that only the keenest of eyes can catch.
I love woodcock for many reasons and I always wish him luck in these endeavors. His success allows me to anticipate a warming autumn meal—a decadent feast in preparation for the coming winter. 





​



From Game Birds of America / Woodock. Hugh M. Clay, Smithsonian Institute











​​THE BIRD
The woodcock’s life begins as soon as it hatches, emerging fully feathered and ready to stumble around looking for food, mainly earthworms. The chicks hang out with their mother and siblings until they fledge and take off on their own. Most don’t range far, but there are some that spend summer traveling about the eastern continent—I suppose it’s the same wanderlust that strikes some human youths fresh out from under a parent’s wing. 
In the fall they migrate from the upper part of the Eastern U.S. and southern Canada to the Southeast. I like to imagine them this time of year, traveling under cover of darkness, navigating by the stars and ever wary of the eyes of owls and stealthy cats. They move between suitable habitats, generally young stands of trees and shrubs growing in moist soil. 
Mystery has always surrounded this secretive and well camouflaged denizen of the forest. Woodcocks have been called the “least understood and seen” of our game birds. When spotted, it is often just a fleeting glimpse as the bird escapes back under cover and into solitude. 
Its enigmatic presence aside, it is truly anatomically unique. It is about the size of a Cornish game hen yet has been said to have more of the appearance of a moth than a bird. It “sings” using the three tiny outermost primary wing feathers. Its brain is upside-down and below its eyes, which are to the rear of its head, giving it nearly 360° vision. Its nostrils are high on its skull so it can breathe while it probes the earth with its long beak. Its ear is near the base of this beak so it can listen intently to the movements below.
​​​
I once read in a story that, long ago, the first woodcock was a tiny partridge. Out-competed by her siblings due to her short beak, she was slowly starving to death. The Virgin Mary took pity on this lonely bird and, bringing her to heaven, placed three fingers on her feathered forehead and blessed her to be a solitary keeper of the forest. Her beak lengthened and three patches formed on her brow, known now as “the Virgin’s Fingers.” She flew from heaven back to Earth and now watches over her forest haunts, where she is known by many names: woodcock, timberdoodle or meme (Anishinaabemowin) in my area. Some call her night partridge, brown ghost, bogsucker or mudsnipe. To the American ornithologist she is Scolopax minor whereas in Europe the  species is S. rusticola. The Germans call her schepfe, meaning “beak.” To the Spanish she is la ciega, the blind hen. In France, where woodcock seem nothing short of worshiped, she is known as La Bécasse, Lady of Velvet Eyes, Queen of the Woods, Enigmatic Gypsy, the Divine One and Sorceress. 

AN ODD TRADITION
What is curious and odd about our relation with woodcock is the manner in which it is traditionally prepared and eaten in European cuisine. In old Europe, it seems that no feast was complete without roast woodcock and, from the banquets of kings to the tables of peasants, this most revered of animals had a very specific preparation. 
Now, I don’t expect your average American to find this appealing, but it is traditional and I can’t belittle anything my ancestors ate—I wouldn’t be here without them. So here it goes: woodcock are plucked and roasted whole, non gutted. Once cooked, the trail (entrails, liver, heart and lungs) is consumed. At the end of the meal, even the head is savored in a ritualistic custom: the very essence of the Queen of the Woods. 
For years I thought it beneath me to partake in such barbarous behavior, but I kept running into recipes from famous chefs, fancy cookbooks and even poets and classical novelists touting the epicurean delight of woodcock cooked in this way. Then I learned that when woodcock are flushed they release their intestinal contents. So what the hell, I thought, I’ll give it a shot—literally. It was time to clean and oil my old fowling piece. 

​THE HUNT

“ …solitary hunting is the domain of dreamers.” 
- Guy de la Valdene, Making Game: An Essay on Woodcock 

Most woodcock are hunted with the aid of dogs. I’ve read that if you don’t have well-trained bird dogs, you’d better hunt something else. I don’t have bird dogs, money to keep them nor patience to train them. Without them I know I am missing out on a huge part of woodcock hunting culture, for even the most terse, stern and seasoned hunters describe watching their dogs’ movements in poetic diction, using lofty words normally reserved for art or religion. 
But I must hunt solo, trudging through likely habitat and waiting for the distinctive sound of flushing wingbeats. There’s about a one- to three-second window in which I must train my 20- gauge single-shot onto the bird and calmly pull the trigger. It takes some practice, and I miss a lot, but when the shot is right on and a bird is in hand there is no greater feeling. It erases all those perfect flushes wasted by horrible shots that made you look a-fool out of your mind. 
I usually bring along a packbasket and carefully circle fruiting shrubs that grow in woodcock habitat such as elder, nannyberry or highbush cranberry, where I wait to rouse a bird. When I’m certain there isn’t a woodcock, I release the hammer on my shotgun, rest it against a tree and pick berries. This way I will never go home empty  handed. Often though, when I finish harvesting and shoulder my basket, an excited trilling will erupt beneath my feet and send me hopelessly scrambling for my gun. 
During the offseason when surprised by that sudden trill, I draw my imaginary shotgun without thought or hesitation. I wish I could just watch the flushing bird and smile, but this is how I’ve trained myself. I have to be much faster on the draw than hunters whose dogs locate and flush the bird for their masters. Those hunters know right where the bird is before it flies, and can down a dozen or more birds in one hunt. I’m lucky to even flush five. But then I’m not just hunting so much as I am berry harvesting or exploring, with the shotgun there in case opportunity arises. My license ensures that grouse, rabbit and squirrel are all potential quarry, although the woodcock is considered by many to be the ultimate in wild game. 

My own best hunting grounds are right out my back door. The poplar leaves tremble and fall all around me and chickadees hold excited conversations. Just when I’m giving up, an excited whistling flutter bursts from beneath a feral apple tree. A shot is fired and the bird dies in mid-air and falls into the brittle and brown goldenrod. After the bird is found, apologies are made and its beauty is appreciated as it is turned over in hand. Gently placed in my hunting vest and with darkness approaching, I am lucky to flush another few and take down one more. This is when I start to think about supper, a small feast that will take place only after the bird is properly aged. 

IN THE KITCHEN
Since the French appear the most infatuated with their Lady of the Woods, I chose to find old recipes from French cuisine. Following advice I’ve read from a famous Parisian chef I aged my brace of birds five days unplucked in the refrigerator, as outdoor temperatures were too warm for the traditional hanging. With the wings removed, I plucked them of all feathers but those on the head. Following another custom, the outermost primary feather from each wing is kept in a hat or lapel. This delicate and small feather was used by painters for their most intricate and detailed work and thus known as the plume du peintre, or painter’s feather. 
Here is where we stray from our comfort zone and venture into European gastronomy. Albeit strange, it is both relished and steeped in tradition. The necks are stretched down to pierce the legs with the beak, trussing the birds and presenting them à la mode classique. They are basted in butter or lard and roasted at high heat, 475° for 13 minutes. Once removed from the oven I spooned out the trail, discarding the gizzards. I then placed the trail in a small skillet with wild leeks, a dollop of butter and some cracked pepper and sea salt. Simmered for about 10 minutes it turned into a sort of pâté. The only things that were left recognizable were the hearts. In the end it is recommended to flambé the sauce using high-end brandy before you spread it on a slice of fried French sourdough baguette with a pinch of fresh thyme. 

“You must pay great attention to giving forks to the guests in the fear that they could devour their fingers if those touched the sauce.”
 --Alexandre Dumas on bird trail sauce, Almanach des Gourmands, 1806 

This toast is meant as a starter, and I must confess I had to drink an aperitif of chanterelle vodka before I gained the courage of a devout bécasse gourmand. It turned out to be very good and I was quite impressed. It was very rich, heavy and earthy. It had a bit of an iron flavor that was expected. I was pleasantly surprised when several dinner companions joined in without hesitation. 
Now for the main course. The flesh of woodcock is heavenly. The birds I enjoy most are the ones shot in mid to late October because they are buttery and fat—completely the opposite of any other upland game bird. The breast meat is deep red, reminiscent of duck. People say it tastes like liver but I’ve read that if it does, you are cooking it wrong. Oddly enough the legs are actually white meat and are creamy and delectably greasy from the fat reserves built up for the great migration south. 
Considered the coup de grâce—the ultimate delicacy in the art of woodcock feasting—is the head. Snapping the beak apart, the skull is broken open to reveal the brain, which is then scooped out using the tip of the lower mandible, and eaten. With gusto, mind you. 
Although not even enough for a full bite, the brain proved excellent: creamy and buttery, rich and hearty. 
Well, there you have it. Waste not, want not. La bécasse complète. 
Fin. 

EPILOGUE
It saddens me that most people aren’t even aware that such a thing as a woodcock exists. It is this ignorance of the natural world that is literally paving the way for habitat destruction—a major threat to the population of migratory birds. As a hunter I put myself in complete dependence on these animals and will only thrive if they do. 
It is humbling to place faith in something greater than oneself, even if it is just a bird. I’ve heard that in parts of France the priests in rural villages have many fewer parishioners for mass during woodcock season. But this transgression is forgiven without confession, for it is known that those who hunt la bécasse des bois are following a feathered form of the divine.

---