Outdoor Cooking

Cooking out of doors in 1940 — bean holes, spits, clambakes and burgoo, from three food writers who thought a campfire was the best joke going.

HomeCooking the Kill › Squirrel Pie

Squirrel Pie

Even folks who never go hunting with anything more deadly than a kodak should know how to make a squirrel pie. It's easy once they're skinned, cleaned, all hairs and stray ants wiped off with a wet cloth. Save the blood, for the blood of squirrels and rabbits is as precious as those last drops of any game gravy caught by the croutons. To keep the blood from curdling pour a little vinegar or lemon juice into it. Use the heart, liver and kidneys too. Cut the rest up in joints. Mix a pound of finely chopped beef suet with a pound and a half of flour, lots of salt and plenty of pepper. Stir in cold water to make a pie crust dough. Then butter an earthenware dish and line it with the dough, almost an inch thick. Lay in the meat and giblets, pour the blood over and enough water to fill the pie-dish half way. More salt and pepper, much more. Then put a dough cover over all, exactly as you would with a woodpigeon pie; wet the edges and make them stick tight so not a bubbling drop of gravy can get out, but leave a little safety valve in the middle for the steam. Bake about two hours in a moderate oven. When the top crust is yellowbrown put on buttered paper to protect its complexion. Take it to the table in the dish that made it, and when the pie is opened the squirrels begin to sing.

For the Modern Kitchen Do not make this as written.

A steamed-then-baked suet crust over jointed game, in the English pigeon-pie mould. The quantities given are for a large family dish; the crust in particular wants scaling and thinning.

A Little History

Squirrel pie sits at the meeting point of two traditions: the English suet-crust game pie, which this recipe follows almost step for step in its instruction to proceed "exactly as you would with a woodpigeon pie," and the American habit of eating grey and fox squirrel, long associated with Brunswick stew and camp cookery. Squirrel was ordinary meat well into the twentieth century and was treated in cookbooks alongside rabbit; its retreat from the table is usually put down to the cheapness of farmed chicken, though that is surmise rather than documented. The closing line is a nod to the nursery rhyme about four and twenty blackbirds -- "when the pie was opened, the birds began to sing" -- and the joke about hunting with nothing deadlier than a kodak places the piece in the era of the popular hand camera.

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