You don't know meat 'till you've had Deep Fried Caribou.

Now, as much as I am for catching your own chicken and taking it by the head while you whip it around to break it's neck after having had your youngest child raise the chicken as a pet, not realizing that soon it'd be eaten, and thereby traumatizing the poor lad for the rest of his life.

There is nothing quite like having yourself some good old fashioned Caribou.

Sarita and the kids taught me an important lesson in it's preparation. While you could hop down from a silent helicopter in snow-flavored camouflage, the bullet from a rifle would contaminate the blood-stream and limit its tastiness.

So in the spirit of walking the walk instead of talking the biting, good-natured, humorous talk--

Line of the night between seconds :50-1:07.

--We slipped into our sheep skin ugg boots (because it was actually needed, family-value hating, liberal Southern California. They're made for cold, not for mini-skirts), trekked across the tundra with a knapsack full of hope, marched up to the first caribou we saw, and Miss Palin backhanded that thing into forever.

It arched across the sky for a good two miles before skidding to a stop. For a second the U.S. military thought it might be a missile shot from a certain little country in a certain little direction relative to Alaska. Thankfully it wasn't. It was just dinner and left-overs for the next 2 fiscal years.