Rat' on the Grill

I like the idea of ratatouille better than I've liked most of the ratatouille I've been served. It's a dish that sings out "Provence!" at the top of its vegetal lungs, with all that that implies--summer sun, the vibrant colors and flavors of the warm south, sweet pungent garlic, perfectly ripe tomatoes, olive oil.

The basic elements are constant: eggplant, summer squash, sweet peppers, tomato, garlic. But ratatouille's final form and function can vary greatly, from main dish stew to side dish gratin to a sort of elaborate salad. When ratatouille is done right, the various ingredients blend harmoniously, yet somehow remain distinct. The sound of a well-grooved jazz combo comes to mind (is it any surprise I'm suddenly hearing Django Reinhardt and Stéphane Grappelli in my head...?).

When ratatouille goes bad it becomes an overcooked, non-descript mush with the tinny back-taste of lousy tomatoes. Ironically, most of the bad rat's I've had, I've had in France--but in northern France, and that's the key. Much as I love French cooking, it must be recognized that the French are almost comically inept at incorporating foreign influences into their cuisine. When curry and chilies make their way into the French kitchen, the flavor is often so faint, it's as if the cook just held the jar of spice up for the stew pot to see, then put it away unopened. An "egg roll" we were once served at the vaunted Atelier de Joel Robuchon in Paris was such a silly, useless thing, any pho joint on University Avenue would kick its derrière right back to culinary school.

But I digress, just a little. My point is that the same lack of comprehension that befuddles French cooks dealing with foreign ingredients also seems to afflict northern chefs dealing with dishes from the south. They just really don't get garlic, olive oil, and tomatoes--not in a Provencal way, at any rate. But then, you wouldn't go out for choucroute garnie in Arles, would you?


Well, I'm not Provencal, and I haven't even traveled there, so I'm probably just talking through mon chapeau. What I do know is that when confronted with the gorgeous eggplants, chilies, tomatoes, garlic, etc., now spilling off the tables at our farmers market, you just have to put them together, one way or another, and this grilled ratatouille that we cooked up out at Bide-A-Wee last week made a fresh and delicious variation on the Provencal theme. We neglected to pick up any summer squash, so our grilled version is actually one zucchini short of a ratatouille, but I can't say we missed it much.

The eggplant was the star, a fantastic Italian heirloom variety that came from our market neighbors and pals Joe and Laura of Honey Creek Farm. It made a sweet, creamy base that really brought the rest of the flavors together. Many recipes using eggplant call for slicing and salting the eggplant to draw out bitter juices, but I think that with fresh, firm summer market eggplants, that's unnecessary (and it may go without saying, but I wouldn't do this dish with anything else; winter ratatouille, merci, non). The skinny Asian eggplants are always mild and sweet, and could be used here.

The peppers we had were mildly hot, splendidly red, thick-fleshed and sweet despite the heat. Wonderful. The traditional bell peppers can be grilled and peeled just the same. I would only use ripe red peppers, as I detest green bells, but that's a question of taste.

Here's what we did, then: For two people we had one medium eggplant, around a pound. One half red onion (but any other color would work as well). Two red chilies--the equivalent of one good-sized bell, I'd say. The white of one leek. One really big clove of SuperGarlic!, which would be like three large cloves of any other, mortal garlic--from Jackie of Sylvan Hills Organic Farm . A couple medium, exquisitely ripe tomatoes. A handful of fresh basil leaves.

The eggplant we sliced about 3/4-inch thick, and brushed the slices with olive oil. The other vegetables went on the grill as is--if you're using summer squash, treat it the same as the eggplant. Over natural wood coals, grill the vegetables until they are nicely charred and tender. For the eggplant, that meant four to five minutes on a side. Ours got pretty dark, but didn't taste burnt in the final dish. For the peppers or chilies, cook until the skin is blackened all over, let sit a while, then peel, seed and chop. (Placing grilled chilies in a paper bag to help loosen the skin is common practice, and does work, but isn't necessary.)

The leek we grilled until it was really black on the outside, then we took off that layer and chopped the rest. The onion, just keep turning until it gets nice color on all sides. (While the vegetables rested, we grilled Pastures A'Plenty country-style pork ribs, to be glazed and served with a cider-red wine sauce.)

To assemble, finish, and serve: Roughly chop all the grilled vegetables. Seed and chop the tomatoes. Slice the garlic medium-thin. In a large saucepan or sauté pan, heat about two tablespoons of good olive oil. Add the garlic and swirl it about until it just barely starts to color. Add all the other vegetables, and a couple good pinches of salt, and a grind of black pepper. Toss it all about for a couple of minutes only. Turn off the heat, tear the basil leaves up and drop them in. Serve.

The ribs, some polenta (organic, Whole Grain Milling Co.), the ratatouille, slice of Real Toast.

There was some of the ratatouille left over; it was even better two days later.

Text and photos copyright 2009 by Brett Laidlaw

About a Brioche

This is just to say

there will be a basket of these

golden beauties

at the market in the morning.

You can have one

for two dollars.

Good Morning

Wake up and smell the fresh baguette. Good morning, indeed. This is my idea of a really fine breakfast or brunch. A great baguette cut "tartine-style", hunk of cheese (Wisconsin seven-year cheddar there), heirloom tomatoes from the garden or market (I think that was a black krim), some smoked fish (in this case a South Shore smoked herring spread). The glass of our own fresh, home-pressed apple cider doesn't hurt, either.


But it all depends on the bread: You frequently hear that a good baguette should have a "crispy" crust, and a "light and airy" crumb. I just feel that that is so, so wrong. That pretty much describes every awful, styrofoam, grocery store baguette out there (sadly, it also describes too many "artisan" baguettes, as well).


No, the crust of a great baguette is not crisp, it is crunchy. The distinction is this: A crispy crust shatters into a billion little shards when you bite it, and offers little resistance to the tooth. A crunchy crust resists the tooth, you have to work a little to bite through it, and it sheds a minimal amount of crumbs.


A light and airy crumb, desireable? I think not: Dense and chewy, pocked with gorgeous craters, the insides of the larger holes shiny with gluten. It's a piece of bread that demands good teeth. It's a meal in itself, not an afterthought accessory. Well, that's how I feel, anyway. That's how I would describe the great bread I've had in France, notably the Boulangerie Kayser baguette, and others. These bakeries often proudly display a baguette cut open as for tartine in their shop windows, so you can see that lovely landscape of irregular chasms, perfect for taking up plenty of good butter.

And as that top photo of Mary smelling her bread attests, a great baguette has that utterly appetizing fragrance, of wheaty crumb and golden crust. If you tear off a piece of fresh baguette and you're not moved to stick your nose right in it, something's wrong.

I forgot to mention the butter when I listed the elements of a great tartine breakfast. How could I? Hope Creamery butter for us, unsalted. None other. And the jam, blackberry, Bide-A-Wee fruit, sweet but with a beautiful brambly, savory scent to it--always reminds me of good pipe tobacco, vanilla notes, comforting. Blackberry jam on sharp cheddar. Is this heaven? No, it's Wisconsin....


The fish spread was made with smoked herring we picked up at Halvorson's fishery in beautiful Cornucopia on Wisconsin's magical South Shore of Lake Superior. We mixed the flaked fish with some cream cheese and mayo (Kraft, sorry; and Hellmann's, no apology), a few chopped capers and some minced shallots from Jackie of Sylvan Hills at the market. That black krim tomato we got from Joe, Honey Creek Joe, some call him. Chervil and parsley from our garden, just a sprinkling of coarse salt.


And the cider: Yes, apples from our land, pressed just outside the kitchen door. I will show off our new Happy Valley Ranch cider press, right soon.

You can buy a freshly baked Real Bread baguette most Saturday mornings at the Midtown Farmers' Market. If you come right at 8:00, the bread will still be warm from the oven. Don't come after 9:30 thinking you'll get one, period. Then you'll just have to make your own. It's not that hard. I got it right after practicing for just 20 years....



French “Off-White” Bread
The Real Bread baguette and bâtard

A portion of whole wheat flour gives added taste and texture to this basic bread. I usually make this bread into long baguettes or round “boules,” but you can make it into any shape you like: crusty ficelles—very thin baguettes; or plump bâtards; or a big round country loaf. Wheat gluten or "vital wheat gluten," is the part of flour that makes bread dough stretchy and baked bread nice and chewy. You can find it in most grocery stores and co-ops. Co-ops often have it in bulk bins, sometimes refrigerated, sometimes not.

1 cup warm water (around 110 degrees; it should feel quite warm, but not hot)
2½ tsp active dry yeast
2 cups water
1 1/2 Tbsp wheat gluten
¾ cup whole wheat flour
1 Tbl plus ½ tsp salt
5 ½ to 6 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, plus additional if needed during kneading and loafing
Cornmeal

Place 1 cup of warm water in a large mixing bowl. Stir in the yeast and set aside for 5 to 10 minutes to allow the yeast to soften—it will rise to the top in a kind of foam.

Add the additional 2 cups of water, the salt, wheat gluten, the whole wheat flour, and three cups of all-purpose flour. Mix well. Add another cup of flour and mix again, then another cup of flour. The dough will appear rather rough and “shaggy” at this point.

Turn the dough out onto a clean countertop or table. Knead for 2 minutes, adding flour as necessary to keep the dough from sticking. After this initial kneading, put the dough back in the bowl and let it rest for at least 10 minutes. The dough should be fairly uniform, but it doesn’t need to be completely smooth.

When the dough has rested, put it back on the kneading surface. Knead the dough for another 4 or 5 minutes, again adding flour as necessary—you will use most of the sixth and final cup of all-purpose flour during kneading.

By the end of the second kneading the dough should be smooth, elastic, and firm. When you poke it with your finger it should bounce back quickly. When you pinch it, it should offer some resistance.

Return the dough to the mixing bowl, cover the bowl with plastic wrap.

Two options now: For the best result, refrigerate the dough for several hours, five hours to overnight. Remove from refrigerator, knead briefly, and leave out at room temp until it has warmed and doubled in size. For example: I'll make the doughs I bake into baguettes on Saturday morning Friday afternoon, refrigerate until bedtime, knead down, leave out overnight. First thing in the morning, shape, proof, bake.

Short method, if you don't have time for all that: Refrigerate the dough for an hour. Remove from fridge, knead down, allow to rise at room temperature for two to three hours, until doubled in volume. At this point you can either knead it down again and let it rise one more time, or proceed to shaping and baking.

Loafing the bread: Lightly flour the kneading surface. Punch the dough down and place it back on the kneading surface. Knead it briefly, adding flour as needed if the dough is sticky. Divide the dough into pieces appropriate to the shapes of bread you want to make: baguettes, about 10 ounces; round “boules” or ovals, about 20 ounces; bâtards, the plumper baguettes, about 16 ounces.

A tip for shaping baguettes: Do it in several stages. First just knead a piece of dough briefly, and form it into a slightly elongated shape. Leave it alone for a couple of minutes. Roll it between your palms to elongate it further. Press it flat, and fold the sides over, and tuck them in. Leave it alone for another couple of minutes. Repeat this technique until your baguette is as long as your want it--don't forget to take the size of your oven/baking stone into account!

Preparing the oven: You may want to line the bottom of your oven with aluminum foil to make clean-up easier. To add steam to the oven, which helps create a better final rise in the oven, and produces better crust and color, we’re going to toss ice cubes and water into the oven right after the bread goes in. With an electric oven, you can throw the cubes and water directly on the oven floor. Warning: Over time (quite a short time, really), this will warp and discolor your oven floor. Alternately, with either gas or electric ovens, you can place a small cast iron skillet in the bottom of the oven—look at thrift stores or garage sales. With gas ovens, the skillet method is the only one I recommend. Using a cast iron skillet in this way will pretty much ruin it for anything else.

With baking stone and skillet already in place, preheat your oven to 455 degrees.

Dust your peel, cutting board, or baking sheet with cornmeal. Shape the loaves and place them on the peel, cutting board, or baking sheet. Cover with plastic wrap, and let rise about 40 minutes.

After 40 minutes transfer the dough to a peel dusted with cornmeal. Let rise another ten minutes.

Preparing the loaves for baking: Dusting the loaves with flour gives an attractive appearance, and makes them a little easier to slash, but is not necessary. If you like, place some flour in a small sieve and lightly dust the loaves. With a single-edge razor or very sharp knife (a serrated bread knife works well), slash the loaves—this is done to allow for even rising in the oven. For baguettes, make three overlapping slashes down the length of the bread. For boules I usually makes three slashes, creating a slanting “H” shapes. You may be creative and slash in any way you like, bearing in mind that a uniform final rise is what you’re after.

Have 4 ice cubes ready. Give the peel a little shake to be sure the loaves will slide off easily—if they stick, flour your hands lightly and gently lift the loaves to free them.

Now slide them into the oven. Thrust the peel forward toward the back of the stone, then pull it quickly back toward you so the loaves slide off onto the stone.

Throw the ice cubes into the skillet. Close the door.

For baguettes, bake 15 minutes at 455, then turn the loaves around on the stone to ensure even baking, and turn the oven down to 430. Bake for 10 minutes more, or until the baguettes are well browned and sound hollow when tapped on the bottom.

For larger loaves: Bake 15 minutes at 455, turn the loaves around, bake another 12 to 15 minutes at 430.

Remove the loaves from the oven when done, and cool on a wire rack. Always allow bread to cool for at least 30 minutes before serving—the inside of the bread is still very soft and moist just after it comes out of the oven.

An alternative to the peel method: Line a baking sheet with parchment paper, and dust the parchment with cornmeal. Shape the dough into loaves and place on the parchment-lined baking sheet. Cover and let rise as above. When you’re to bake, place the baking sheet directly on the baking stone. Halfway through the baking, slide the baking sheet and parchment out, allowing the bread to finish baking directly on the stone. This is a good method for baguettes, which can be a little tricky to slide off of a peel. You may see a slightly smaller final rise, and the crust may be affected somewhat, but you’ll still get a very good result.


Text and photos copyright 2009 by Brett Laidlaw

To the Woods

They're out there. Down among the oak leaves, on the hardscrabble slopes. Some stand out in cleared patches of soil like a single brilliant dahlia in a vase, like a jar upon a hill in Tennessee. Some shelter against logs, or under grasses, you pass by without seeing them, then turn around--hello! This is not a color we tend to see in the woods.


To describe it as "yellow" won't do; they deserve the designation that comes with the common name for cantharellus cibarius: the golden chanterelle. My favorite wild mushroom. Incomparably fragrant, exquisitely beautiful, occasionally abundant, reliably recurring in the same area year after year--if conditions permit.


Last year I had a decent harvest, a couple of pounds, perhaps. Two years ago, if I recall aright, I finally found one, single, shriveled specimen after hours of foraging, several fruitless outings, hoping against hope when I should have known better. Three years ago, a good harvest, measured in pounds. This year: Maybe the season of a lifetime. I'll let you know after my next outing.

And the thing is, I'm late. I usually start to think about chanterelles in early August, and for some reason I have August 12 in mind as the date I really ought to get to the woods. This year I just wasn't able to make it until the last of August--too many other distractions and obligations. We have had a wonderful, action-packed summer, but as you all probably know, sometimes having fun can be just exhausting. Especially when you have to fit work in there, too....


So the first chanterelles I found, several large ones at the very edge of the woods that I think of as my chanterelle hunting grounds, were old, dried, bug-eaten. My heart sank. But I went a little farther, heart rising with each step, each glimpse of gold in the leaf duff. At length, I was feeling quite okay.


Along with the chanterelles, I discovered an abundance of black trumpet mushrooms , what the French call trompettes de la mort, "death's trumpets." That Gallic nickname surely sounds a little off-putting, but it just comes from a fanciful notion that if Death decided to take up the horn, maybe form an underworld combo, his instrument might look something like this.


The black trumpet isn't deadly, far from it--it is edible and delicious, delicately scented, and lovely to behold whether raw or cooked.


Oh, yeah, and the hen of the woods mushrooms are fruiting, now, too. I picked one small, pretty clump, around three-quarters of a pound. I had thought to look for more, but I got distracted....


With mushrooms this special, especially the first of the season, we treat them very plainly. Just sautéed in good butter, and served over a soft omelet of fresh local eggs. Some fillet beans from the garden, roasted with sliced leeks. Piece of bread, glass of wine.


Man, do I love eating this time of year.


Text and photos copyright 2009 by Brett Laidlaw

Duck, Deconstructed

We eat pretty well out at Bide-A-Wee, especially considering that we have no kitchen to speak of--no sink, no refrigerator, no appliances of any sort as there is no electricity to run them. Well, we have an oven, but it has to be preheated for about three hours before it's ready to use. In the cold months we simmer and braise very merrily atop our woodstove, Haggis. At any time of year I'm happy to grill over hardwood coals--last winter I actually built a fire and grilled steaks in the midst of a wind-chill advisory.

In the warm months our main heat sources are the campfire/grill and a two-burner Coleman propane stove. Pretty basic equipment, but still there's not much you can't cook very creditably with it. For weekend trips we tend to keep things fairly simple--a steak and veg on the grill, potatoes in the coals, or even a made-ahead stew or hearty soup that we just have to heat up.

When we have a few more days to slow down and relax, it's often a pleasure to cook out of doors, and prepare things a little more elaborate. So on our last Bide-A-Wee vacation we brought along a duck. The breasts and thighs were grilled and napped in that unchaste berry sauce described in the previous post.

The carcass and neck, with all the fat and skin removed, were chopped up and browned well in our dutch oven. Then I added a variety of aromatic vegetables--leek, fennel stalks, carrot, onion, garlic--stirred those around with the duck bits for a while, added some thyme and black pepper, covered it all with water and let it simmer for a couple of hours. That provided the basis for my berry sauce, as well as a rich element in a South Shore fish chowder I prepared a couple of days later. I had enough left over to add to a cassoulet that I made at home in Saint Paul, using duck confit that I prepared at Bide-A-Wee.


Drumsticks, wings, heart and gizzard, liberally salted, peppered, tossed with thyme and a few cloves of garlic. At home I would have used the quatres-épices confit spice , Madeleine Kamman's recipe. I had some b-b-q spice rub at the cabin, quite a similar thing, in fact. With a little piment d'espelette, it worked fine.

To make confit you need fat, lots of fat. Fortunately, ducks come with lots of fat. You obtain rendered fat by cutting the fatty duck skin into strips, about a half-inch wide by two or three inches long. Put those in a pan, cover the duck skin with water and bring it to a boil. Simmer medium briskly until all the water boils off. At that point most of the fat will have rendered out of the skin. Watch carefully as the duck skin turns a nice golden brown. At that point you've gotten out all the fat you're going to get.

Fish the cracklings out with a fork, and drain them on a paper towel. With just a little salt, these become one of the best things you could put beside an aperitif, a glass of scotch or a martini, assuming they survive until happy hour. At our house they often mysteriously disappear well before dinner time.

The duck legs and wings sat in their seasoning overnight, and I dried them with paper towels just before cooking. At home I'm usually making confit with four drumstick-and-thigh portions, and I use a big casserole or dutch oven. With the smaller batch I made at Bide-A-Wee I just put the drumsticks and wings right into the pan in which I rendered the fat, and when I was finished cooking a couple of racks of spareribs, I put the confit pot on the grate, under the lid, to cook slowly as the coals died down. I turned the duck once or twice while it cooked, slowly turning tender and unctuous in the bubbling fat.

I find it both enjoyable and satisfying to spend an afternoon that way, with lots of pots on the fire, making a lot from a little, anticipating the fine eating that will be my reward. Nothing went to waste. Instead of "Duck, Deconstructed," I could have titled this "Everything but the Quack".

Text and photos copyright 2009 by Brett Laidlaw

Grilled Duck with Promiscuous Berry Sauce

I should begin with a clarification: In no way should the title's "promiscuous berry sauce" be taken as a condemnation of the moral character of Bide-A-Wee's berries, which are just as forthright and upstanding as any berries could be, I assure you. Nor does it refer specifically to the sauce, which, though saucy, as is to be expected, was likewise found to be of sterling character, admirable in every respect.

Instead, the adjective describes the forage that resulted in the sauce (but not the foragers, indeed not...). The Random House dictionary (in an online form)gives these definitions of promiscuous:

–adjective 1. characterized by or involving indiscriminate mingling or association, esp. having sexual relations with a number of partners on a casual basis.
2. consisting of parts, elements, or individuals of different kinds brought together without order.
3. indiscriminate; without discrimination.
4. casual; irregular; haphazard.
Synonyms:
1. unchaste. 2. hodgepodge, confused, mixed, jumbled. See miscellaneous. 3. careless.

Here we're taking defintions two through four as our guide, and #2 in the synonyms list. On one of our first days out at our Wisconsin land during a recent baking break, we took a walk, and on our walk we took a basket. Casually, without discrimination, we gathered what berries we found along the way. It's late in the year for our raspberries, but we found a few of both the black and the red. The gooseberries, which in their hard green form taste unpalatably sour, yet make a tasty fool, had begun to ripen, darken, and take on a slight dusky sweetness, not unlike black currants--a few of which we also found in an adjacent tangle.

And the first of the blackberries were just coming ripe. A couple of handfuls of those dark, juice-packed beauties rounded out the jewel-like bowl of berries that graced the Bide-A-Wee table at the end of the day.



We were in no hurry at all to turn the product of our promiscuous forage into anything more refined, whether jam, sauce, or syrup. The fragrance of the over-ripe raspberries did not fill our little cabin, but you would catch the scent of it when the breeze came your way, a fleeting, cheering sniff. And that hodgepodge of berries in the bowl, all the various colors, shapes and textures, glazed with the juice of a few berries that got squished at the bottom of the basket, was a delight to the eye every time we looked at it. Haphazard though it was, it couldn't have been more pleasing.

And, like all the joys of summer, and of the forager's world, be it a mayfly hatch, a fruiting of fungus, the moment of the berries' perfect ripeness, this pleasure was perfectly ephemeral. By the second day our lovely bowl of berries was practically begging to be puréed--indeed, some had started to take matters into their own hands (recognizing that berries don't exactly have, uh, hands...).

There's a time for everything, they say, and when it's time for dinner, and there's a duck on hand, and a bowl of berries ready for their next adventure, we know just what to do.


Grilled Duck with Berry Sauce

I feel this should be descriptive, rather than recipe-quantitative. This dish came about just as haphazardly as the berry forage. We had a whole duck, purchased at the Country Lane Farmers Market just north of Barron, Wisconsin. It was about a four-pounder, I think. I took it apart into its constituent parts--boneless breasts, separated legs and thighs, wings, carcass, skin. There's a use for every part of the duck, and I'll discuss more about what I do with them in my next post.

On a big fat duck like the ones that produce foie gras, the breast, or magret, is sometimes big enough to feed two, and I mean just one, single side of the breast. This duck was more of an Audrey Hepburn sort of duck, rather than a Dolly Parton type, so I decided to grill the thighs, as well (now I'm sorry I just gave you the mental image of Audrey Hepburn's thighs on the grill; try to focus on them pre-grilling, just resting lithe and elegant in a delicate marinade...).

From the carcass I made a stock--brown the chopped-up bones, add aromatic vegetables, herbs, water, simmer a good long while. But you could use chicken stock if you like. You'll need some good strong stock for the berry sauce.

The berries we just dumped in a saucepan, promiscuously, and we added a little water, brought it to a boil, and simmered until the berries gave up their individual identities, and now, no longer mixed, jumbled, or miscellaneous, came together as one, as a mystic surrenders ego to meld with the universal spirit in ineffable ecstasy.

And then we added sugar to taste. Not too much. We left it fairly tart, much less sweet than any jam you would buy, because I wanted that tartness to balance the rich stock, and the richness of the duck itself. But if you're using regular jam--blackberry, raspberry, or black currant (or a promiscuous melange!) all would be good--add an equal amount of dry red wine to your jam. I had meant to add wine to our sauce, but forgot, and I'm glad I did; it had more berry qualities without the wine.

Quantities: For two servings, reduce about a cup of unsalted stock to one-half cup. Add a good pinch of salt and a grind of pepper, then two tablespoons lightly sweetened berry purée, or 1 1/2 tablespoons jam and 1 1/2 tablespoons red wine. Simmer a couple of minutes, and at the end taste for salt, then swirl in a tablespoon or two of soft butter.

For the duck: I just seasoned it with salt and pepper and grilled it over hardwood coals. There's a lot of fat in duck skin, of course, but if you grill it over a moderate fire and turn frequently, you'll be okay. The thighs will take a couple of minutes longer, so while they finish just move the breasts to a warm part of the grill away from direct heat. When the skin is nicely crisp and evenly brown, the duck should be done. Moderate heat and frequent turning, I repeat, are the keys to successful duck grilling.

The result of successful duck grilling.

Text and photos copyright 2009 by Brett Laidlaw

Snakes Alive

So as I took the tarp off the earth oven last week, here's what I saw:

That's a bull snake, a relatively small one, about the size of a large garter snake. Bull snakes can exceed six feet in length.

Anyone have a good recipe for barbecue snake?

This visitor is still alive, slipped into a hole in the oven base and slithered away. Seriously, though, does anyone know if bull snakes are edible?

Text and photos copyright 2009 by Brett Laidlaw