First Jennifer trolls for the absent Doc by posting about revolting Dr. Pepper cocktails, and now the Doc strews an particularly appetizing chum of Libertarian Wackos, World War I historiography, Crypto-Kaiser Advocacy, and the most charming historian in the West, Niall Ferguson. Wow. Quite a combo.

But I refuse to rise from the depths to assault such a delightful melange. Me, I am thinking about eating squirrel.

It was none other than Roger Scruton, like Niall a member of the Doc's British Pantheon, who brought to my attention his own favorite method for grilling squirrel, along with a whole load of other wonderful countryside culinary advice. It's such a rich treasure-trove of stuff I hardly know where to begin that wouldn't lead me to quoting the whole thing in entirety. Let me confine myself to Dr. Scruton's advice for grilling the grey squirrel:

The squirrel should be skinned and eviscerated. You should leave the head on, not only because the cheeks are a special delicacy, but also because it serves the same ornamental function as the head of a sea bass or a woodcock. Don't take out the eyes, but leave them to cloud over like opals in the heat of the fire. Marinate the squirrel for a few hours in olive oil, with salt, pepper and a squeeze of lemon juice; then skewer the length of its body and grill on both sides.

To which I say, yum. But even better is an ancient family recipe that calls for the squirrel to be skinned, beheaded (naturally you will have shot the little blighter right in the head, thus avoiding any harm to the meat), and quartered. It can be rolled in peppered flour, if you like that sort of thing, or seared directly in a little olive oil. Lower the heat, toss in some garlic, wait until said garlic is golden, then add a rough red wine, and herbs to your taste...I like a little rosemary. Lower the heat way down, and go away for an hour. What you will have, eventually, is a delightful squirrel fricasee. This must be served over golden, steaming mounds of polenta. It is simply superb, and if people knew how good it was, there would be a heck of lot fewer squirrels in America's suburbs.

Dr. Scruton is also very sound on the question of deer:

As much a pest as the rook and the squirrel is the deer. During my first years of settling in the country, I took Wallace Stevens's view that these delicate creatures, arising from the grass like a sudden visitations, are part of earth's glory: "Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail/Whistle about us their spontaneous cries."

However, our mountains are merely the top of a hill, and the copse that we planted there is being steadily consumed. One day, when we had discovered a whole spinney vandalised and were at our wits' end for a remedy, Mervyn presented himself.

Dressed in baggy camouflage, with a large knife at his waist and an assortment of guns across his shoulder, Mervyn is the one you turn to for the gruesome jobs - skinning, gutting, or the coup de grâce. A man of few words but fierce loyalties, Mervyn is typical of the new countryman. He commutes in his battered Subaru from Swindon. He does not respond to your call; like the weather and the wildlife, he occurs. And there he was, just when we needed him.

Let our motto be: Every One Their Own Mervyn. David Brooks has been writing a lot lately about the soothing enclaves of Sprinkler City, whose eponymous hero he has dubbed Patio Man. This denizen of exurbia frequents Home Depot, has a deck with more square feet than his house, and grilling utensils of the complexity of an ICBM control board. It is a soft life, comrades. Enliven it by putting up a tree stand in your backyard, taking lessons with a bow, and shafting Bambi right through the neck as he leans down to take a drink from the pool. That will show the little beggar. Get the hell of my lawn, you damn deer!

Tastes great grilled, too. Mervyn Man will not need to completely forsake his past existence.