Not a Bunny Boiler

I think rabbits are sweet, although I was a bit annoyed when the courgettes my daughter was growing were eaten by the pesky varmints. My solution to the problem was to cuss them up a bit while I erected a fence. (I may not, in truth have erected the fence myself, I may have persuaded a man to do it, fence building being mens’ work.) The fence meant that the courgettes were safe and I when I opened my curtains in the morning I could still see thumpers in the garden hopping around and doing that cute thing to their faces with their wittle paws.

If my ten year old son happens to be with me when I open the curtains, his reaction to the sight of early morning rabbits is somewhat different to mine. He might do any of the following: a) tap on the window repeatedly, gesticulating at them to get off the garden, b) take our ancient dog outside to be humiliated by them, c) hurl the window up and yell impotently into the gale at them or d) begin the process of attrition with which he will finally persuade his father to take him out in the evening to shoot them.

When he first became interested in killing things at the age of about 5, I knew it was fruitless to try to persuade a small boy that all life is sacred so instead I set about teaching him that if he killed something, it mustn’t die in vain and the best way to ensure that it didn’t was to eat it. He took that lesson very much to heart. Being an up-for-it kind of cook and pretty non-squeamish I didn’t think to drum into his impressionable young head that his kill also should be given to the kitchen oven-ready. In those early days he might have presented me with one Daddy-shot pheasant a month. Now that he is actually nailing animals himself, not merely watching his father, (who can take animal murder or leave it) the lolling head count in the kitchen has increased hugely. Its not that I mind doing it every once in a while but there are things I could more profitably be doing than gutting and plucking or skinning several animals a week. Claws and fur add greatly to cooking times.

On Thursday my son shot a rabbit which he brought to me triumphantly and said he wanted to have stuffed for his Christmas present. Fantastic. All I had to do was shove it - whole and hairy - into a plastic bag and into the freezer. And phone the taxidermist. But instead of calling it a night, his father allowed him to shoot two more. These two were for the pot.

Rabbits need to be gutted as soon as they are shot or all kinds of disgusting things start happening like the contents of their intestines being reabsorbed into their flesh. I told my son that I was just putting dinner on the table but if he wanted to gut them I would keep his warm. The smell of shepherd’s pie wasn’t enough to tempt him away from the rabbits for the short time it would take them to start absorbing the contents of their alimentary canals therefore rendering themselves useless for human consumption, dammit. He wanted to gut them. Which he did, leaving the entrails by the doorstep of the rented house we are living in for the owner to step over when he let his dog out last thing at night. The rabbits were brought in dripping a little and still furry.

“Could you skin them, darling please?” I asked.

His response was along the lines of no. He had selflessly hunter-gathered something delicious (both killed cleanly with the first shot) for the family pot and the least I could do was skin them myself. I began to point out that he is the only person in the family who likes rabbit, but it occurred to me that I was raining on his parade so I shut up.

Eating rabbit would be very credit crunch, but the only thing about it that appeals to me is its essential zeitgeistyness. The results do not justify the immense effort required. Its now Monday and Thursday’s rabbits remain in the fridge, approaching, surely, their use-by date and still furry. But if we don’t eat them my well-trained son will be appalled at the wasted lives.

Meanwhile I’m snacking on six quid a tub granola which is crunchy, but definitely not credit crunchy.