Bugs Bunny

“Bugs” is in pieces, entombed in ice. Rather a posh tomb, as its actually surrounded by an expensive Rioja sauce. It was supposed to be our lunch on Saturday, however, there were two things which prevented this: the main reason being that there was not enough meat to feed it as an appetiser to a field mouse. And two, because I chickened out of even touching it.

Rewind to last week when our butcher recommended rabbit. Why? Oh why? Did I ask for “something different”? I could hardly sleep on Friday night when I knew they were going to hunt down Bugs for me, to order, the next day. I prayed for rain and that the hunter would wake up temporarily blind.

As our butcher handed me the bag containing Bugs, I knew I was in trouble. I felt his cold bones, tiny backbones and knew I was never going to be able to cook him. Cue much wining to Stuart asking him to do the dirty deed and clean Bugs up and cook him. My Granny the previous night had warned me to check the carcass thoroughly for shot remnants and not to even think about feeding it to the kids because of the bones.

Poor old hubby has done many a wonderful thing for me, I would count severing a rabbits liver from its body within the top 20. To mitigate my guilt, I threw over some expensive Rioja and garden herbs and left it to stew for a few hours. Our friend Steve, who is the biggest carnivore I know, turned his nose up at it, saying he could not eat a bunny rabbit, he declared us so heartless that “we may as well cook our chinchilla….”

Further eyelash fluttering at hubby got him to take the meat off the bones. The redwine sauce was really fragrant and I wish I could have tried the meat, alas, neither of us could face it.

Hence, its now frozen, awaiting the expertise of my Granny who will create something utterly lush and satisfying from it, when she next visits.