Dear World: I Am Eating Pickled Deer Heart

How culture informs the food we eat—and the other way around, too

I’m Ash, and I’m a writer, traveler, nonconformist & nomad, and every week I’m sharing funny field notes from around the world. Currently, I’m in America writing about what it’s been like to return home to my small town, twenty years after living abroad.

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In America, the food you eat is one of the easiest ways to pinpoint where someone is from.

For instance, someone from the south will eat fried chicken, someone from LA will eat kale, and someone from Wisconsin will eat other people from Wisconsin.

Unlike Britain, where the food seems to be much more homogenized across the nation—fish, chips, bangers, mash, and the infamous “spotted dick”—in America, where you live is not just going to determine the quality of what you eat, but what you actually eat.

Here in the American countryside, where I have been renovating this farmhouse property, I have met a good number of folks who have never eaten any of the following items:

• Sushi

• Avocado

• Hummus

• Goat cheese

• Risotto

• Truffles

• Gnocchi

• Burrata

• Naan

• Curry

• Peanut sauce

• Prosciutto

• Arugula

• Ceviche

• Aioli

• Anything tartare

• Calamari

• Papas bravas

• Fruit in salads

• Fennel

• Quinoa

• And, of course, wine that doesn’t come from a gas station—which explains why no one drinks wine

These are the foods of the liberal elite.

And, I’ve got news for you: if you regularly eat these things, as I typically do, you are likely a member of it.

Contrast this with the hors d'oeuvres that were served at a holiday party at the neighbor’s house the other day:

Pickled. Deer. Heart.

I’m surprise my heart is still in tact.

They gave it to me, and told me what it was afterward, and I have to tell you the truth: it was weirdly fucking delicious. But then again, you could probably pickle your socks and I’d love it.

However, it is probably not on the menu at your neighborhood gastropub—a word that, in and of itself, makes a socioeconomic statement. (Did you know that the “gastro” comes from “gastronomy?”)

Similarly, there are plenty of things that rural Americans eat that the liberal elite typically do not:

• Venison (deer meat)

• Red Offal: the liver, heart, kidney, tongue, spleen (unless it’s French, lol)

• White Offal: Stomach, lungs, intestines, cheek, brain (unless it’s Spanish, lol)

• Buffalo meatballs (ate these on Christmas)

• Scottish highlander roast beef (ate this on Christmas)

• Turtle eggs

• Beaver meat

• Squirrel

• Rabbit

• Canned EVERYTHING (green beans, apples, carrots, peppers)

• Shots of alcohol. Which is still a thing I occasionally see grown adults order around here.

Getting back to the pickled deer heart—sorry about your dreams tonight—I learned that during hunting season—which happens for two weeks in between Thanksgiving and Christmas—hunters deliberately try not to shoot the deer in the heart, because they specifically want to save it to eat.

WHO KNEW THESE THINGS.

Apparently, the most ideal place to shoot a deer—because, yes, I asked—is the lungs. Quick, painless, and not sacrificing any of the desirable harvest.

“Harvest” is another word I have learned here. They like to say this as a gentle euphemism for “kill and eat.” Sort of like how we say “remains” instead of “corpse.”

You know what else I learned about deer, now that I am your new official internet deer whisperer? Did you know that the bucks—the males with the antlers—LOSE THEIR ANTLERS EVERY YEAR AND THEN GROW THEM BACK?????? That’s like losing your arm every year and having it grow back, right in time for some son a bitch to shoot you in the lung.

Another curious observation:

Hunters here are, paradoxically, surprisingly compassionate—at least from what I’ve witnessed.

Yes, they hunt, and they kill, but with a distinct purpose of doing so to sustain life. They are respectful of the two-week window during which it is allowed. And, outside of that window, most are greatly admiring the deer in their backyard, or going out of their way to stop for them in the road, or feeding them chopped open pumpkins, or stopping to watch mom and baby. It is an interesting relationship, indeed.

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Another cultural element of food here in rural America is the role that baking plays in the everyday household. Everyone knows how to bake. Do you know how many delicious tins of cookies I had delivered to my doorstep for Christmas? (Because, yes, the neighbors absolutely do this—which is a delightful change of pace from my neighbors when I lived in Philly.)

Cookies are THE go-to gift for everyone you know, in every capacity.

Need a teacher present? Cookies.
Need a family present? Cookies.
Need a friend present? Cookies.
Need a neighbor present? Cookies.

For someone like me who does not bake, this is FUNNY. Although less funny when I tell you about the frequency with which I am finding myself eating them.

I used to never eat cookies. Didn’t care about sweets. Still don’t really. But, when they’re everywhere in your environment, you end up adapting.

So, I tried to follow suit—sort of. Instead of baking cookies, you know what I did???? I ordered boxes of gourmet Insomnia cookies, and batches of Georgetown cupcakes, and I gave away those. I KNOW! NOT AUTHENTIC! WHAT A DICK!

But, that is authentically me. I am not a domestic goddess. I am not even attempting to be. But what I am is someone who wants to show my appreciation.

Last year when I first bought the farmhouse, I gave away bottles of fine olive oil—even to Christopher the trash man and Brandi the mail lady—and I’m pretty sure it was the equivalent of giving out grand pianos. The looks I got were admittedly a little weird. And here’s me thinking, “Man, I’d LOVE to get a nice bottle of olive oil for Christmas!” But, this is a cultural thing, too.

Some days I long for a wine bar.

Some days, I long for a sophisticated salad.

Some days, I long for fresh pasta.

Some days, I long for bakery bread.

Some days, I think about putting all of those things here. Not to run them—you’d have to be insane to want to run a restaurant, especially if you live an international lifestyle—but simply to have them at my disposal. I have even gone as far as to consider starting a high school entrepreneurship program and making all the kids run it under the guise of learning ;). Can I be the small-town commercial developer who turns it into a warm and fuzzy non-profit and gives kids skills they never would have otherwise and plants the seeds of possibility into their little hearts—all while getting our own Hallmark movie???

Hell, I’m still thinking about resurrecting the ice cream stand I used to run, 100 years ago when I grew up here myself.

But, I must say that despite wanting all of these things, I am finding so much of this lifestyle to be quite refreshing otherwise.

• The kid at the post office knew the address of the person I was sending the package to…before I could even look it up on my phone. (Haha, and it didn’t even seem creepy???)

• The township supervisor called me the other day and asked if I would help in planning a brand-new town festival, up on the old ball field, to celebrate the history of the area. (I like that he thinks I know how to plan. Should we tell him???)

• The stranger who stopped to say hello when I was outside in the yard the other day, and thanked me for mowing the town square all summer.

• The other neighbors, who flit back and forth from Philadelphia, who generously had me over for homemade pierogies on Christmas Eve while they entertained. (There was some type of glorious sour cream and onion concoction on the stove that I was to dip them in—Polish heaven!)

• The man who lives up the road who, when driving by my house on his side-by-side, randomly stopped to plow the snow out of my driveway with no expectation of anything in return.

• The guy who dropped off 3 giant wooden beams in my driveway that he sourced from a contracting job, knowing I would need them in the spring to stabilize the foundation of the farmhouse.

• The free Thanksgiving dinner the local pub does up for anyone who wants to come by (they cooked 30 turkeys).

I value these kindnesses immensely. When I lived in Santiago, Chile, one thing I used to always notice was how no one in my building would ever—and I mean ever—greet you in the elevator. I lived on the 18th floor, so this was painful for me, a chronically enthusiastic person.

But, again, it is all cultural.

In most of the cities I’ve been to and lived in around the world, people are indifferent to your existence. That can be isolating. It can make you hard, unfriendly. I will never forget the guy flailing down the stairs behind me, without shoes on, the day I bought my condo in Philadelphia, telling me I needed to “lawyer up” now that I had bought the unit, because he would be filing a suit against all owners over an inch of a parking space in the courtyard. I laughed in his round, red, annoying, meaty face—I am not one to be poked. White I hated the hostile environment there in that building, I did have a damn nice wine bar nearby.

Like everything in life, it is all a trade off.

Right now, I am more interested in being content than being interesting.

Right now, I am more interested in living my life, than performing one.

And right now, I am pretty sure I would eat another piece of pickled deer heart, or a piece of liver, or some weird-ass turtle eggs, or even the meat of a beaver (MAYBE), because this is what culture is:

Unique versions of the same human experience.

And while it may not always be considered cultured, it certainly is fascinating—regardless of whether you call it “pancetta” or “pork.”