Roast Woodco*ck Michigan Style - Woodco*ck Recipe | Hank Shaw (2024)

As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.

The first time I ever hunted woodco*ck was in the closing stages of my first book tour, back in 2011. I’d been on the road for two months, and, like any tour, had some serious stress and not a little fun. The hunt was at the tail end of that trip, and I could see light at the end of the tunnel.The hunt turned out to bea restorative experience.

My friend Brian, a long-time reader of this space, had generously offered to show me the Michigan northwoods, an offer I happily tookup.

I had eaten exactly two woodco*ck before this hunt, thanks to my friend Brian from North Carolina (not all my friends are named Brian, just the woodco*ck hunters… ), who FedEx’d me a brace of them last year in return for some Oregon truffles. I roasted those woodco*ck simply.

The flavor? Sort of like a combination of dove and ruffed grouse, with a little snipe thrown in. I know, I know. Unless you are a hardcore bird hunter this means nothing to you.

Still, I had never killed one myself. “We ought to be able to fix that,” Brian said. He was right.

We drove north past the little town of Luzerne and into the grouse woods. Brian was more interested in ruffed grouse, and as it happens,the two birds share the same sort of woods, but inhabitdifferent spots. Woodco*ck like life a little damper than grouse do. Both birds prefer thick cover.

Alders, black ash, birch, aspen. This is their home. As we walked through them, Brian’s English pointer coursing around, he bent down to look at something. “Take a look at this,” he said. “Put that in your blog.” I looked. Um, OK. Bird sh*t. “That’s classic woodco*ck. If you see that, the birds are around.”

What did that woodco*ck eat to make such a sh*t? Probably earthworms. Timberdoodles love earthworms. They also eat other creepy crawlies like millipedes, beetles, snails, ants and other assorted larvae. Another fun fact? They take a dump when they fly, so their guts are clean (sorta-kinda) should you shoot one. This is why some people like to roast their woodco*ck un-gutted. Haven’t yet had triedthis.

Sure enough, Brian’s dropping-fueled hunchwas right. I heard a bird flush and say, “peeent!” and saw the shape zig-zagging away from me through the saplings. Theoretically this would be a tough shot, but I’ve killed my share of snipe before, and they do the same thing, only faster. So I felt pretty calm. I missed with the first shell, but folded the bird on the second. Success! I rushed to the spot where it fell, but couldn’t see the woodco*ck. Damn. Same as snipe. They blend in perfectly with the forest floor. I felt that flood of anxiety wash over me.

I hate losing birds, and I did not want my first ever woodco*ck to be lost. Brian’s pointer was not too interested in finding a dead bird, so we looked around ourselves.Brian himself soon found it, thank God. It felt good to have the bird in hand.

Hunting woodco*ck opens the mind the way steam opens the pores. As you make your way through the thickets — walking is too generous a term — your eyes dart around and your mind races as you try tosolve the geometric dilemma of crossing tree limbs and stumps and brambles and fallen logs. You do not always succeed. On our second morning, I fell into a hole and bashed my knee on a stump. Occupational hazard.

As you move, you keep your head on a swivel and your ears pricked up. In that split-second you hear that basso thrum of a grouse’s wings as it flushes, or the crackly peent! of a woodco*ck, you must raise your shotgun, find the bird, decide if you can shoot, pull the trigger and be ready to follow through for a second shot, if you need it. Hunting woodco*ck occupies your entire existence. It is instinct.

Trouble lies in a relaxed mind. The only two woodco*ck I missed but should have killed were pointed by Brian’s dog. I had only to walk up to the dog, who would then flush the bird, and I could shoot it at my leisurefrom close range. But for whatever reason, the ease of this whole scenario flustered me; it’s the same with those “gimme” shots on ducks that I always miss. Don’t think, Hank, just shoot!

I wound up with three birdsbetween an afternoon and morning of hunting, and I could easily have shot a two-day limit of six had I been just a bit better (or luckier). I couldn’t believe how many there were around. “I don’t shootwoodco*ck unless I’m with someone who likes them,” Brian said. “People up here don’t really like ’em.” It showed. The grouse, which is the preferred quarry of Brian and most of the other local hunters, were so elusive that Brianonly got one.

Driving back from the northwoods, I thought about how to cook this three-bird bonanza. You should know that the unfortunately named woodco*ck, Scolopax minor, is a legend among game birds, as muchfor the hunting as for the eating. Outdoor writers and gourmands as august as Brillat-Savarin alike have waxed poetic about the little bird:

A woodco*ck is in all its glory when it has been cooked under the eye of the sportsman and above all of the sportsman who has killed it Then the roasted bird is in perfection according to all rules and regulations and the mouth is flooded with delight.

So a woodco*ck has white meat on its stubby little legs, while the breast is dark like squab or dove. They usually have a little fat on them, but nothing like the amount on a duck. Woodco*ck are small, the size of a squab, with spindly wings and chunky legs. They should be cooked medium, or even rare. Woodco*ck meat is strong, but not smelly. Gamey in a good way. It does well salted a little more than you think it ought to be. And woodco*ck is best cooked simply.

For a sauce, it would have to be an ode to the Mitten State. Shortly after this hunt, I did a book event in Detroit, where I managed to pick up some homemade vinegar and ajar of wild Michigan crabapple jelly. Sweet? Tart? That’s a classic French gastrique. Brillat-Savarin would have approved.

I roasted the birds at 500°F and ate them with my hands, with a nice bottle of 2008 BeaujolaisI was shocked to find in a bar in Ashley, ND, where ended up cooking the birds. They were org*smic. Sweetish, sour-savory sauce, woodco*ck fat running down my hands, crispy skin and rich meat so jammed full of flavor that I sat there gorged after eating all three, one after the next.

That memorable meal made mefeel like myself again. Home was in sight, and life was good.