A Washington College Course Exploring Hunting, Food, Sustainability, and the Power of Learning by Doing

This past Thursday, I sat down to an extraordinary meal with a group of Washington College students. As I looked around the table, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride and, to be completely honest, a little relief.

We were celebrating the conclusion of a course I had recently developed and taught for Washington College, and although I've spent more than twenty years teaching at the college and university level, I have to admit that I was a little nervous about this one.

You see, this wasn't your typical college course. It dealt directly with subjects that many people find uncomfortable, controversial, or even disturbing. We were going to confront blood, death, and the realities of transforming animals into food. We were going to challenge students to examine their own beliefs, fears, moral convictions, and ethical responsibilities. Some people might even argue that a course like this has no place in higher education.

But I would argue exactly the opposite.

In fact, the very things that made this course potentially uncomfortable were precisely what made it so important to teach. I believe that education should do more than provide information or reinforce what we already believe. It should challenge us, expose us to unfamiliar experiences, encourage us to question our assumptions, and give us the tools to develop a deeper understanding of the world around us. And sometimes, that means confronting things we'd rather not think about.

But there was something else that made me particularly nervous about teaching this course, and it had nothing to do with the subject matter.

My son, Billy, was one of my students.

I can't tell you how much it meant to me that Billy wanted to take this class. As a father, I was incredibly proud that he was interested in exploring something that has been such an important part of my life's work. And as an educator, having the opportunity to share a classroom with my own son, watching him learn, ask questions, and engage with the material alongside his classmates, was something truly special.

But if I'm being completely honest, it also added another layer of pressure that I hadn't anticipated. I've always wanted to do the best job I possibly can for my students, but this time there was something more personal at stake. I wasn't just hoping to be a good professor. I was hoping that, when the course was over, my son would also be proud of me.

*The final meal - Billy is at the far end with other students plus Commissioner Nickerson*

And as I sat around that table with my students, including Billy, enjoying the culmination of weeks of hard work, I couldn't help but feel that we had accomplished something truly meaningful. This was the experience I had hoped to create when I developed Field to Table: Whole-Animal Stewardship and Wild Food Systems.

On the table were waterfowl pâté, duck confit rillettes, venison soup, homemade venison sausage with sauerkraut, braised venison shoulder, and venison chops accompanied by foraged hen of the woods mushrooms and a cranberry reduction. It was an incredible meal, but what made it truly extraordinary wasn't simply the food. It was the fact that the students sitting around that table had participated in transforming the wild animals into nearly everything we were eating.

Just weeks earlier, those same students had stood around whole deer, ducks, and geese in the Modern Stone Age Food Lab. They had learned about anatomy, removed feathers and hides, processed organs, butchered carcasses, ground meat, developed sausage recipes, and explored ways to transform parts of animals that are so often discarded into delicious, nourishing food.

Now, they were sitting together, sharing the results of their work, reflecting on their experiences, and enjoying an extraordinary meal that they had helped create.

And for me, that was about so much more than food.

A Different Kind of College Course

Throughout my teaching career at Temple University, Monmouth University, Washington College, University College Dublin, and University College Cork, I've always believed that some of the most meaningful learning happens when students have opportunities to move beyond the classroom and engage directly with the subjects they're studying. That's especially true when it comes to food.

In higher education, we spend a great deal of time discussing sustainability, ethics, conservation, nutrition, food waste, and our relationships with the natural world. These are critically important conversations, but I've often wondered how much more meaningful they could become if students had the opportunity to experience these issues firsthand. What happens when we move beyond discussing the ethics of eating meat and actually confront the realities of an animal's death? What happens when we stop talking about food waste in the abstract and instead stand in front of a whole animal, responsible for deciding how best to use it?

And what happens when we have the opportunity to literally look that animal in the eye?

Those were the kinds of questions I wanted students to explore through Field to Table.

This wasn't simply a cooking class or a course about hunting. It was an opportunity for students to explore some of the most complicated and consequential questions surrounding our food system through genuine, hands-on, project-based teaching and learning. We did it in a supportive environment where students could ask questions, challenge assumptions, express discomfort, and explore perspectives that might be very different from their own.

The goal wasn't to teach students that they should hunt. It was to help them understand the responsibilities that come with eating animals and to explore what a more ethical, sustainable, nourishing, and connected relationship with meat might look like.

From the Field to the Table, Literally

The course began by exploring the role of meat in human evolution and the technologies our ancestors developed to acquire, process, preserve, and prepare animal foods. For most of human history, eating meat required far more than purchasing a package of steaks or chicken breasts. It required an understanding of animals, landscapes, seasons, behavior patterns, anatomy, tools, fire, preservation, and cooking. Perhaps most importantly, it required knowing how to make the most of what an animal provided.

Today, we've become incredibly disconnected from that process. Many people encounter meat only after it has been transformed into familiar, anonymous cuts wrapped in plastic. We rarely see the animal, consider the work required to process it, or recognize how much potentially valuable food may be left behind. Feathers, hair, skin, feet, offal, and bones are almost entirely absent from most modern kitchens. Even within hunting communities, it is common for only certain portions of an animal to be used.

I wanted my students to experience something different.

Over the course of the semester, they worked with wild deer, ducks, and geese native to Maryland's Eastern Shore. They plucked waterfowl, skinned a deer, examined anatomy, and learned to butcher these animals into useful cuts. They recovered and prepared organs, including livers, hearts, kidneys, and gizzards, and discovered how bones, connective tissue, fat, and less familiar cuts could become valuable ingredients rather than waste. Along the way, they explored the traditional technologies humans developed to transform these ingredients into foods that are not only nourishing but absolutely delicious.

At every stage, we returned to one central question: What does it mean to honor an animal by using every part of it to nourish one another?

Nose to Tail: An Ethical Responsibility

I believe that one of the most important things we can do to improve our relationship with meat is to reconsider what we define as food. When we harvest an animal, or purchase meat from someone who has, we are participating in a process that involves taking an animal's life. That deserves serious consideration. If we're going to eat animals, shouldn't we make every reasonable effort to use what they provide?

This is where a nose-to-tail approach becomes so important. It isn't simply about reducing waste, although that's certainly part of it. It's about recognizing the value of the entire animal. The liver, heart, kidneys, gizzards, bones, skin, fat, and connective tissues all have potential uses. Many are nutritionally valuable, and traditional food cultures around the world developed extraordinary ways to transform them into desirable foods.

Throughout the course, students discovered that ingredients they might previously have considered undesirable could become some of the most interesting and delicious things they ate. As they gained experience working with whole animals, something remarkable happened: they began to see the animals differently.

One student who had hunted waterfowl for years reflected:

"I have killed dozens of waterfowl in my life and have quite literally only ever eaten the breast."

The student explained that this wasn't because the other parts were considered disgusting. It was simply how they had been taught to process birds. After the course, that perspective changed:

"I will definitely be making a change as to what parts of waterfowl I eat."

That is exactly the kind of impact I hoped this course would have. I wasn't simply interested in teaching students a new technique. I wanted to give them the knowledge, experience, and confidence to change how they approach food in the future.

Turning the Unfamiliar into Something Extraordinary

One of my favorite parts of the course was watching students discover the culinary potential of ingredients that are often overlooked. We worked extensively with offal: the organs and other parts of an animal that many modern Americans rarely encounter on their plates. Students learned to transform these ingredients into pâtés, rillettes, stocks, and other preparations, often discovering that some of the least familiar parts of an animal could produce the most remarkable flavors.

We also explored sausage making, which is a fantastic way to transform less desirable cuts and trim into something valuable. Rather than simply following a recipe, students learned about meat-to-fat ratios, seasoning, salt, grinding, mixing, and the role of natural casings. They then worked in teams to develop their own sausage recipes. Because a little friendly competition makes everything more exciting, we turned it into a sausage contest! The students ground their meat, mixed their seasonings, stuffed their sausages into natural casings, and prepared them for our culminating meal, where we would taste and judge the results.

One student, who already had considerable experience processing animals, particularly appreciated the science involved:

"I didn't realize there were precise formulas for the exact percentages of spices, water, fat, and salt to add."

I loved this observation because it highlights another important aspect of our approach to food. Traditional food preparation isn't simply a collection of old recipes. It represents generations of technological innovation, scientific understanding, experimentation, and accumulated knowledge. When students learn why a technique works, not just how to follow instructions, they gain skills they can apply far beyond a single dish.

Creating Space for Difficult Conversations

Perhaps the most important aspect of Field to Table was the opportunity it created for students with very different experiences and beliefs to learn together. Some students came from hunting families, while others had never processed an animal. Some were excited to work with whole animals, while others were nervous or uncomfortable. Some even entered the course with serious ethical objections to hunting.

I wanted all of those perspectives to have a place in our classroom because the purpose of education isn't simply to reinforce what we already believe. It's to challenge us to think more deeply, consider different perspectives, and develop a more informed understanding of complicated issues.

One student who identified as being opposed to hunting described the emotional difficulty of encountering the deer we processed. Seeing the animal firsthand raised questions about its life, death, and the ethics of consuming meat. The student did not leave the course suddenly embracing hunting, and that wasn't the point. Instead, the experience prompted deeper reflection about animal welfare, food waste, and the limitations of our modern food system.

The student wrote:

"I think many people would benefit from more ways to access a variety of ethical food."

I think that is an incredibly important outcome. Meaningful education doesn't require everyone to reach the same conclusion. It requires giving people the knowledge, experiences, and space to develop more informed perspectives.

And the experience wasn't only meaningful for students encountering these ideas for the first time. Some students entered the course with considerable experience hunting, processing animals, and preparing wild foods. For them, the course offered an opportunity to deepen their existing knowledge, explore unfamiliar techniques, and consider familiar practices from new perspectives. Meaningful education doesn't require changing someone's mind. Sometimes it reinforces what they already believe while helping them understand more deeply why they believe it.

Another student described how the course created an environment where trying unfamiliar foods and techniques felt possible:

"The community and sense of trust I have ... makes me feel more like it is an honor to try these dishes and take part in these techniques."

That sense of trust matters. Students were doing things that were physically unfamiliar, sometimes emotionally challenging, and often far outside their comfort zones. But they were doing them together, with guidance, support, and a shared commitment to learning. By creating an environment where students felt comfortable asking questions, making mistakes, and expressing their feelings, we were able to explore difficult subjects in ways that I believe would have been impossible through lectures and readings alone.

The Steward's Table: Bringing It All Together

Our culminating meal was the perfect conclusion to the course. We were also honored to have Kent County Commissioner Albert Nickerson join us. Albert had harvested the deer we used throughout the semester, and having him at the table helped complete the connection between the field, the people involved in obtaining our food, and the meal itself.

The students had spent weeks transforming the deer and waterfowl into a remarkable range of foods, and now it was time to enjoy them. We began with waterfowl pâté and duck confit rillettes, showcasing how traditional preparation techniques can transform different parts of wild birds into delicious dishes. Next came venison soup made with our venison bone broth, demonstrating how even bones and less familiar cuts can contribute to deeply flavorful, nourishing meals.

Then came one of the most anticipated moments of the evening: our sausage competition! Students tasted the sausages developed by their classmates, accompanied by sauerkraut, and had the opportunity to judge the results. Finally, we enjoyed braised venison shoulder and venison chops with wild hen of the woods mushrooms and a cranberry reduction.

It was a wonderful meal, but what struck me most was watching the students experience the results of their work. They knew where the meat came from, understood what had gone into preparing it, and had participated in the difficult, messy, technical, and sometimes uncomfortable steps required to transform whole animals into food. Because of that, they appreciated the meal differently.

One student captured the significance of our final gathering beautifully:

"I loved seeing everyone work together as one 'family' while learning new skills and getting to know each other."

The same student reflected on the journey from whole animals to finished dishes:

"I loved tasting everything once it was complete because I could really appreciate the animals we eat every day on a deeper level."

That is the power of connection. Connection to our food, to the animals that nourish us, to the people who harvest, process, and prepare it, and ultimately, to one another. Around that table, those connections were no longer abstract ideas. They were experiences the students had shared and relationships they had built.

Why This Kind of Education Matters, Especially Now

We are living at a time when conversations about food have become increasingly polarized. We debate whether people should eat meat, how animals should be raised or harvested, which foods are healthy, and what sustainability really means. These conversations are important, but too often, they happen at a distance from the actual processes involved in producing food.

We discuss food systems without understanding how food is made. We debate sustainability without experiencing the work required to use resources responsibly. And we talk about our relationship with nature while becoming increasingly disconnected from it.

Field to Table offered a different approach by giving students an opportunity to explore these questions through direct engagement. They didn't simply read about food waste; they saw firsthand how much of an animal could be used. They didn't simply discuss anatomy; they learned it by carefully butchering animals themselves. They didn't simply debate the value of organ meats; they transformed them into foods they could taste and evaluate. And they didn't simply talk about community and connection; they created a meal together and shared it around a table.

This is what experiential education can accomplish when we give students the opportunity to engage deeply with complex issues and put their knowledge into action. The lessons become more than information to memorize for an exam. They become experiences that shape how students understand the world and make decisions long after a course has ended.

What Does It Mean to Honor an Animal?

At the beginning of the semester, I asked students to consider a question: What does it mean to honor an animal by using every part of it to nourish one another? We returned to that question throughout the course, and I asked them to reflect on it again in their final assignments. Their responses were thoughtful, diverse, and often deeply personal.

One student wrote:

"Honoring an animal goes far beyond simply respecting it after it is dead."

Another reflected:

"It made me appreciate the skill it took our ancestors to fend for food for the village and their families."

I found these reflections particularly meaningful because they demonstrated that students were beginning to recognize how much more there is to our relationship with animals than simply obtaining meat. Honoring an animal involves understanding its life, appreciating the skills and responsibilities associated with harvesting it, and recognizing the value of everything it provides.

The deer and waterfowl used in this course nourished our students physically, but they also provided opportunities for learning, reflection, collaboration, and growth. Those experiences will continue to influence how these students think about food long after the semester has ended. And perhaps, as they share what they've learned with their families, friends, and communities, the impact of those animals will extend even further.

More Than a Class

As an archaeologist, educator, and chef, I have spent much of my career trying to reconnect people with the knowledge and technologies that have sustained humans throughout our history. Field to Table brought together so many of the things I believe are most important about that work. It connected food with ecology, ethics, nutrition, and culture while demonstrating that learning can be intellectually rigorous, physically engaging, emotionally meaningful, and incredibly delicious all at the same time.

When I first developed this course, I knew that some of what we would be doing might make people uncomfortable. I knew that students would arrive with different experiences, beliefs, and perspectives, and I wasn't entirely sure how they would respond.

But sitting around that table on Thursday evening, watching those students share a meal they had worked so hard to create, listening to their conversations, and reading their reflections afterward, I was reminded of why I became an educator in the first place.

The most meaningful education doesn't always happen when we're comfortable. Sometimes it happens when we're challenged to confront something unfamiliar, question what we thought we knew, and discover that the world is far more complicated and interesting than we previously understood.

I'm deeply grateful to Washington College for the opportunity to teach this course, to Albert Nickerson for providing the deer that made so much of our work possible, and especially to the students for their curiosity, openness, hard work, and willingness to embrace unfamiliar experiences.

And then, of course, there was Billy.

As I read through the students' final reflections, I eventually came to his. I had been looking forward to reading it, but I was also a little nervous. After all, this was my son, reflecting on a course that meant so much to me personally and professionally.

Billy wrote:

"I grew up watching you grade papers, get dressed up for work, and talk about your college classes. Actually being in one was awesome and a full circle moment."

He also shared that watching me teach was inspiring to him and that he was proud to have been part of the class.

I can't adequately describe what reading those words meant to me. At the beginning of the course, I had quietly hoped that my son would be proud of me. And now, here he was, telling me that watching me teach had inspired him. After more than twenty years of teaching, I don't think I've ever received a more meaningful evaluation of my work as a professor.

*Billy in the Food Lab butchering venison*

But what made me equally proud was reading his reflection on the central question we had explored throughout the course: What does it mean to honor an animal by using every part of it to nourish one another?

Billy wrote:

"It also means to use the animal to teach other people or feed and nourish other people. To share the animal throughout many mouths and minds."

In that simple reflection, Billy had captured something that sits at the very heart of everything we're trying to accomplish through the Modern Stone Age Food Lab. The value of an animal doesn't end with the nutrients it provides. It extends to the knowledge we share, the traditions we preserve, the relationships we strengthen, and the people we nourish, both physically and intellectually.

I hope all of my students left this course with more than a few new recipes or butchery skills. I hope they left with a deeper understanding of the responsibilities that come with eating animals, a greater appreciation for the knowledge embedded in traditional foodways, and the confidence to make more thoughtful decisions about their food.

And as a father, I will always treasure the opportunity to have shared this experience with my son.

Because ultimately, that's what the Modern Stone Age Food Lab is all about. We don't just want to teach people how to prepare food. We want to change the way they understand it.

And sometimes, the most powerful way to do that is to begin with a whole animal—and end around a shared table.

Field to Table: What It Really Means to Honor an Animal