“Also he sent forth a dove from him, to see if the waters were abated from off the face of the ground; But the dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and she returned unto him into the ark; for the waters were on the face of the whole earth; then he put forth his hand, and took her, and pulled her in unto him into the ark.”
— Genesis 8: 8-9, KJV
Dove Hunter Dave Baker.
My mother was a Missouri farm girl who grew up in a family of hunters, married a hunter and gave birth to two sons who became hunters.
In season, wild game was a staple at our dinner table, accented with garden vegetables. I thought I was the luckiest kid in the world. And I was. We ate like kings. My father hunted close to home and in that time and place, deer and turkey had all but vanished from the landscape, although they later would return. But small game was plentiful, especially rabbits and squirrels, along with the occasional quail and waterfowl, although my father wasn’t much of a duck hunter. My mother was a fine cook and a marvel with wild game. The dishes were simple and delicious.
Rabbit stew.
Rabbit pot pie.
Rabbit rice casserole.
Quail, more of a rarity, would be braised, broiled, fried or roasted and, in what must have been saved for special occasions, served with cream sauce and rice.
Squirrels were common, and after my brother and I became proficient with a .22, they rolled into our house as though hauled in by conveyor belt. My mother cooked them every way imaginable, including barbecued. (Nearly four decades after the fact, I’m still searching for a taste for barbecued squirrel, although fried squirrel and creamed potatoes with a side of biscuits and gravy remain a favorite wintertime supper.)
It was only years later that I learned that my mother didn’t particularly care for squirrel or rabbit, but her men liked them, so she creatively turned these critters into an endless array of delicious dishes without comment or complaint. For the betterment of humanity, the selfless things wives and mothers do for husbands and sons should be imprinted on the genetic code.
One hot September day at the invitation of a friend, who was tagging along with his uncle, I was introduced to dove hunting. My friend’s uncle stationed me at the edge of a cornfield that backed up to a ditch, beyond which a few cattle were grazing. He made sure I was mindful of the hunter standing to my left (him) and left me baking in the late summer sun with my dad’s well-worn 16-gauge Remington 870 and a box of short brass No. 8s, along with a strict warning not to shoot in the direction of the cattle, which I later learned he owned. For an hour or so, I broiled in the heat under a cloudless sky vacant of doves. Then, birds began to appear—first by ones and twos and then in bunches. Throughout the afternoon, doves flew like a whirlwind, twirling, whizzing and wheeling through the holes in the lead shot I was throwing at them. I’d shot most of my shells and failed to loosen a feather when my friend’s uncle appeared at my side. With some coaching, I managed to drop two doves.
I soon returned home, proudly showed the pretty gray birds to my mother and asked if we could have them for supper. She picked up one of the birds—still warm and slightly bloodied—and turned it over in her hand.
“Get them ready,” she said, meaning to clean them. “I’ll cook them for you tomorrow.”
She cooked the birds wrapped in bacon, which I later learned was to help keep the dark meat moist. I eagerly cut into one of the breast pieces, which is really about all there is to eat from a dove. I offered my mother a bite. She declined. When I insisted, she laid her fork aside and said with a sternness that startled me, “I don’t eat doves.” Then quietly added, “The trouble with doves … well, son, it was a dove that Noah sent from the ark.”
You probably know the rest of the story:
“And he stayed yet another seven days; and again he sent forth the dove out of the ark; And the dove came in to him in the evening; and, lo, in her mouth was an olive leaf plucked off; so Noah knew that the waters were abated from off the earth.”
According to the Biblical account, Noah would have had plenty of winged critters to send forth. For reasons unexplained, he chose a dove, which, in my mother’s view, afforded it a special status. I’ve since met a handful of others who share this view.
Kentucky’s dove season opens Sept. 1. The season is divided into three segments (Sept. 1-Oct. 26, Nov. 23-Dec. 3 and Dec. 23-Jan. 14), but most action happens during the first week of the season. Dove hunts are as much a social gathering as field sport. I will be in the field on opening day. My mother has been gone for many years, but I often feel her presence. Never more than opening day of dove season.
For details on the upcoming season, including a list of public dove fields, visit fw.ky.gov.
Readers may contact Gary Garth at outdoors@kentuckymonthly.com