Adventures in cooking

The days grow ever darker, but the arctic hares are at their brightest. From now on, they will lose steadily the acquired succulence of late fall. One has been seen near Ye Olde Badger's Cave, under the spruce. (Although adjacent pawprints of a large dog, coyote, or possibly PUMA suggest that this one may already be taken.)

I have therefore been rifling my file of recipes, with thoughts of a new sensation for my annual Solsticial Feast. Polarhasenpfeffer? Saddle of Blanched Hare Vigneronne? Jugged Puss?

Hmm. Therein lies the rub. Everytime I catch a glimpse of the witless stare of Lepus arcticus, I think of G & B and how awful they would taste.

I am fine with that but have no brain.

I have no brain but am fine with that.