Using it All
The quiet thrill of wasting nothing
The smell of steaming pheasant broth made from bones and scraps fills my house, crowding out the sweet scent of fat rendered from a pair of mallards I’d shot in North Dakota. As I busily vacuum-sealed the wings, tenders, drumsticks, and thighs of the pheasants and ducks, I glanced over at my dehydrator, where a p…