Ditched the turkey - now what?

A soothing winter rabbit stew

The most upbeat subject for discussion this dispiriting Christmas might be the etymology of the word for the centrepiece of the feast, ‘turkey’. 

The pilgrim colonists are thought to have borrowed the word from the fowl Turkish traders had introduced from Africa to Europe to name the unfamiliar New World native. The Turks themselves call it a Hindi. The Greeks call it a French. The French call it an Indian. I call it a bore. 

This Christmas being so discombobulating, anything goes. So in this house, it’s bye-bye turkey and hello poacher’s stew.

Shortly before a country Christmas one year, a neighbour came by, a dead rabbit dangling from his hand. He made a few judicious nicks in its neck then unrolled its skin down its body like a stocking and offered it to me for the family pot. Only the greatest British phlegm allowed me to receive it without either bursting into tears or gagging.

I'll eat anything. I've eaten beetles in Cambodia, snake in Indonesia, guinea pig in Mexico (forgive me, children), and ant soup in Laos. (You have to spoon it up at speed before the ants swarm out of the bowl.) But rabbit? It's a bit too bedtime-story for my taste.

Conversely, I can get my head round hare with no discomfort. It seems to me that while both animals can give a dog a run for its money, somehow the rabbit is on a losing wicket from the moment it lopes off towards the safety of its burrow. If it isn’t evading baying hounds, it’s under threat from hunters with guns and snares, none of them with the comical incompetence of Disney cartoon characters.

Then there's the Beatrix Potter connection, fluffy animals in blue jackets napping amongst soporific lettuces, not to speak of a childhood summer of myxomatosis when the countryside round my aunt's house was heaving with expiring bunnies running in demented circles, their eyes hanging out on their throats.

Hares seem made of sterner stuff. Jackrabbits, as they’re known in the US, are canny creatures, zigzagging their scent across the hills, driving pursuing dogs crazy with frustration. Besides, they are the inspiration for the unctuous Civet de Lievre, a mainstay dish of Faustian blackness and depth at Brasserie La Coupole in Paris where it would be a mistake to doubt any aspect of the menu, especially when the next table is occupied by an exquisitely dressed elderly woman feeding her delectable Jugged Hare to the dainty dog balanced on the seat opposite. 

Sensitivity over eating rabbit or hare under those circumstances becomes untenable in the face of French scorn.

This is the time of year when hare is readily available (as is rabbit, but I still draw the line). I’m not guiding you towards a Civet as you might have to brace yourself more than you’re capable of this Christmas to cook up its blood and guts, the ingredients that provide its blackness. But this dish with oranges is less provocative and especially festive in a year when Christmas itself will not be. It marries wonderfully with wild mushrooms - and your regular Christmas turkey side dish of  roast potatoes. You can equally effectively use rabbit. But I shan’t.

Happy Christmas.

For 4

1 hare, jointed 

6 tablespoons flour, seasoned

140g/5oz butter

120ml/¼ pint white wine

120ml/¼ pint or more stock

Salt and pepper to taste

Bouquet garni

30g/1 oz butter

1 tablespoon flour

Juice and zest of 1 scrubbed Seville bitter orange, or juice and zest from 1/2 orange + 1/2 lemon

1 Seville or large orange, scrubbed and thinly sliced

Bunch of flat-leaf parsley, leaves only, roughly chopped

Toss the pieces in seasoned flour. Melt the butter then brown them over medium-low heat. Set in a lidded casserole, pour over the wine and enough stock to just cover the meat. Season, add the bouquet garni, cover and simmer till cooked, 30-45 minutes.

Mash the flour into the remaining butter and divide it into 6 or more small lumps. Strain the sauce from the joints into a small pan and reduce it till it has a strong flavour - by a quarter or half. Taste it. Keeping the sauce at a simmer, add the flour lumps one by one, whisking them in each time before adding the next. The sauce will thicken. Simmer 5 minutes to cook out the flour flavour, then add the orange juice.

Lay the joints onto a warmed platter and pour the sauce over. Slice the orange thinly and set the slices around, scattering parsley over all.