I do not like venison.
Oh, it's not for lack of trying, really. I've eaten chops and winced my way through sausage. Actually, the only time I've enjoyed it, was at my step-grandmother's house, and she marinates her roast in something for three days and then stuffs it with herbs and garlic cloves and berries and it's a veritable fiesta on the tongue. Unfortunately, her health is not good, and I'm afraid she wouldn't remember what she did with one roast, umpteen years ago.
But for the most part? Nope.
This is a problem, because Bear? Likes venison. Likes hunting.
Got a deer last week. (As he puts it. So far, I haven't said 'What did you get it?')
My freezer is full of nicely packaged lumps of Bambi's Mom. The kids and B enjoyed some 'deer food' while I stuffed my face with clementines and salad. (Not a hardship. Clementines are one of the nicest things about Christmas-time.)
B is crestfallen. "Don't you want to try?"
No. No, honey, I don't. But this isn't because I'm squicked that you went out and killed the thing. (Although we are having that discussion, as well.)
Just don't like venison. Now, where are the clementines?