A wee while ago, "The Elitist" and I were discussing recipes for rooks
(which are members of the crow family) when the question of the origin
of the term "eat crow" arose and I offered to look it up. I haven't
noted the reference (it's at home) and I hope I remember the correct
dates too.

During the 1812-1814 British-American war, a ceasefire was agreed by
both sides. An American soldier went off hunting for something to eat.
Finding only a crow, he shot it. However, he was behind British lines
and was apprehended by a British officer. The British officer, who was
unarmed, engaged the American soldier in conversation and by way of
admiring his gun, disarmed him. He then forced the American to eat part
of the crow and, having warned him to keep to his own lines, handed him
back his gun whereupon the tables were turned and the officer, too, was
forced to eat crow. The next day, the British officer made formal
complaint to his American counterpart who had the soldier brought
before him. "Do you recognise this British officer?" he was asked. He
replied, "Yes. We had lunch together yesterday."

The book claims that this origin is widely accepted and goes
unchallanged. Tickles me. :-)

ObTastelessQuarry:

I had a yearning to try a coot (a black waterfowl - not a duck -
smaller than a mallard and noted for its white bald spot, poor flying
ability, and general stupidity) and I knew where there were some. My
twin argued that I was wasting my time: if they were any good to eat
they would have a reputation for it, which they don't and people would
queue up to shoot them, which they don't. We scanned all my game recipe
books and couldn't find any. I wasn't going to let a little thing like
that put me off, enquiring minds wanted to know. :-)

We got to the ground as dusk struck, and found a bunch of coots
paddling around on some inland water (lake) and, since they virtually
refuse to take to wing thereby giving Ben something on the wing that he
might actually hit, I plugged one with a nifty 75 yard shot from my .22
rifle. (What d'yer mean "unsafe, unsporting"? It was neither.) The coot
rolled over and sank. What!? It bobbed up again. My dog had not marked
the shot since he hadn't seen the coot in the first place. (They were
75 yards out on choppy water at last light.)

I sent him in and he went out as directed to about 50 yards, stopped,
circled a few times, stuck his head under water and groped around,
circled some more and, deciding that a miss was a miss, came back in.
By then, the light had gone so that Ben and I could no longer see the
coot. However, the wind was such that, ten or twenty minutes later, as
we walked back along the water's edge, I spotted the coot bobbing in
the waves only twenty yards out. Ben sent his GSP, Otto who had marked
it. My dog, who was someways off, saw the action and jumped in,
overtook Otto, stole his retrieve, about turned, and got back to shore
before Otto. Hurrah! He delivered it to hand without pausing to mince
it to a pulp - another first! :-) Otto, came over and submitted a
formal complaint about protocols, and etiquette, and an old man being
allowed to finish a retrieve without young whippersnappers charging in
and stealing it. His complaint was duly noted. :-)

Yesterday thinking that it might be better to have a brace for the
oven, I plugged another coot and Otto retrieved this one from 35 yards
in grand style. When we got home, I was unable to pluck either coot,
the skin not relinquishing its grip on the feathers, and ended up
skinning the first one. There was negligible flesh on the breast, it
was mostly on the legs, and the thick white fat smelt terrible.
Altogether, it wasn't very appetising. I was still prepared to have a
go, but I was outvoted three to one against. We ended up having turkey
pie and the coots are going to my hawk and ferrets.

Moral: if you can't find a recipe for it anywhere, it just ain't worth
eating. :-)

The coots are [reasonably] safe from me from now on.

--Jonathan