u/Extreme-Fisherman868

I posted here on Reddit before about how I cook venison steak.
This time I changed my method a little after some of the things I learned from Reddit.
Before, I would thaw the frozen venison and put it in salt water for 2 or 3 days before cooking it.
This time, after taking it out of the salt water, I left it uncovered in the refrigerator overnight.
The surface was pretty dry when I took it out the next day. When I cooked it, it got a really nice brown crust.
After that I wrapped it in aluminum foil and let it cook a little more from the heat.
It came out nicely browned on the outside and juicy inside.
And honestly, it was really good.
The flavor of the venison and the browned crust together surprised me.
Reddit has actually made me try things differently.
How do you like to cook and eat venison?

I’ve been mushroom hunting for more than ten years now.

After spending that much time in the woods, you end up having a few moments that still don’t feel real years later.

Some mushrooms I’ve only ever seen once.

This Russula was one of them.

At first glance, I honestly thought it was a flower growing on the forest floor.

When I got closer, I realized it was a mushroom that had split open almost perfectly.

It looked so much like a flower that I couldn’t stop laughing.

For a moment, I imagined mushrooms getting tired of being mushrooms and deciding to disguise themselves as flowers instead.

I might have to turn this one into a comic someday.

When I cook venison, I almost always make it as a steak or a roast. Mostly because that’s the way I enjoy it the most.

I’ve ended up with this method after trying a lot of different ways over the years. I’m sure there are better techniques out there, but maybe this will give someone an idea.

My venison steak method
・Trim the meat, cut it into portions, and freeze it.
・Thaw only what you need, then soak it in salt water and leave it in the fridge for a day or two.
・Take it out, pat it dry, and let it come up to room temperature.
・Season both sides with salt and pepper.
・Sear one side in a hot pan for about 2–3 minutes, flip it, and cook the other side for another 2–3 minutes.
・Brown the edges too, then wrap it in foil and let it rest for about 10 minutes so the residual heat finishes the cooking.
・Slice it fairly thin.
・Use the juices from the pan and the foil to make a quick sauce with whatever seasonings you like.
・Pour the sauce over the venison.

That’s it.

It’s honestly one of my favorite meals.

I’d love to hear how everyone else cooks venison. If you’ve got a favorite recipe or technique, please share it!

For more than 10 years, me and my friend have been going into the mountains every autumn to look for matsutake.
Some years we find them, some years we don’t.
To be honest, it’s kind of crazy when I think about it. We are looking for a mushroom about the size of a hand in a huge mountain.
In the beginning we just walked around thinking, “maybe we’ll find one.” Most of the time we found nothing except being tired.
After doing this for years, I learned that luck is not enough. You need to know what kind of place matsutake likes. Temperature, elevation, weather, things like that.
We also know an older lady who checks mushrooms. Every year she tells us how the season is going and around what elevation mushrooms are appearing. That information helps a lot.
People say matsutake often come back to similar places or near certain trees, but it’s still really hard. Most of my guesses are wrong.
The hardest part is seeing what’s right in front of you.
Many times I found a matsutake only after walking past it. I thought I was looking carefully, but I wasn’t.
Every year I tell myself maybe this year will be different.
Maybe I’ll find one.
Maybe I won’t.
But when autumn comes, I end up going back to the mountains anyway.
Does anybody here have something like that? Something you keep doing every year even though there is a good chance you’ll come home empty-handed?

For more than 10 years, me and my friend have been going into the mountains every autumn to look for matsutake.
Some years we find them, some years we don’t.
To be honest, it’s kind of crazy when I think about it. We are looking for a mushroom about the size of a hand in a huge mountain.
In the beginning we just walked around thinking, “maybe we’ll find one.” Most of the time we found nothing except being tired.
After doing this for years, I learned that luck is not enough. You need to know what kind of place matsutake likes. Temperature, elevation, weather, things like that.
We also know an older lady who checks mushrooms. Every year she tells us how the season is going and around what elevation mushrooms are appearing. That information helps a lot.
People say matsutake often come back to similar places or near certain trees, but it’s still really hard. Most of my guesses are wrong.
The hardest part is seeing what’s right in front of you.
Many times I found a matsutake only after walking past it. I thought I was looking carefully, but I wasn’t.
Every year I tell myself maybe this year will be different.
Maybe I’ll find one.
Maybe I won’t.
But when autumn comes, I end up going back to the mountains anyway.
Does anybody here have something like that? Something you keep doing every year even though there is a good chance you’ll come home empty-handed?

You wander through a huge map with almost no instructions, searching for things hidden in plain sight.

The soundtrack is simple: wind moving through leaves, birds calling in the distance, and your own footsteps on the forest floor.

Maybe that’s part of why it feels so satisfying.

Those sounds have probably accompanied humans for tens of thousands of years. Even when I discover a species for the first time, the experience somehow feels strangely familiar.

Finding this mushroom felt a bit like uncovering a rare item.

In Japan, matsutake is considered one of the most prized wild mushrooms, and finding one in the forest is an exciting moment for many foragers.

Looking at it, I couldn’t help thinking how incredibly efficient nature’s designs are. No unnecessary features, no wasted effort -just a form refined through an unimaginable amount of time.

I’m Japanese and live near Odawara.

Every June I visit a friend who grows plums in the Soga area. He is a plum farmer, and buying plums from him has become one of my yearly traditions.

We only see each other about once a year, but we always end up talking for a long time. Honestly, I think I go there as much to see him as to buy plums.

He grows a variety called Juro. I use those plums to make umeboshi.

I used to buy cheap umeboshi from supermarkets, but good ones can be expensive. About five years ago I found out that making them myself wasn’t actually that difficult, so I’ve been doing it every year since then.

When I bring the plums home, many of them are still a little green. After a few days they turn yellow-orange and my room fills with the sweet smell of ripe plums. I look forward to that smell every year.

Making umeboshi takes some time, but eating something I made myself always feels special.

Does anyone outside Japan make umeboshi? I’d love to hear about your experience.

One thing hunting taught me is that my life exists because of the lives of others.

When you hunt an animal, “taking it” means ending its life. Most decent people would hesitate before doing that. I certainly did.

When I first started hunting, I wasn’t even sure what I was trying to do. I still remember the first animal I harvested and the moment I delivered the final knife cut. I felt sadness, guilt, and responsibility all at once.

Some people told me, “You don’t need to do that yourself.”

Maybe they’re right.

But then I started asking myself: who does it for us?

The meat and fish we buy in stores did not appear there on their own. Someone raised those animals. Someone slaughtered them. Someone prepared them so the rest of us would never have to see that part of the process.

Modern society hides death remarkably well.

But if we never face it, can we truly understand the value of life?

Even in my garden, I see this reality. When I sow seeds, cut grass, or harvest vegetables, I find insects and earthworms everywhere. Sometimes I accidentally kill them. Even growing food comes at a cost.

The more I observe nature, the more I feel that every living thing survives by receiving the energy—the life—of something else.

Because of that, I don’t think “feeling sorry” is enough.

The best way I know to honor those lives is to be grateful and not waste what I eat.

Hunting didn’t make me value life less.

It made me realize that my life, today, still rests on the sacrifice of countless others.

One thing hunting taught me is that my life exists because of the lives of others.

When you hunt an animal, “taking it” means ending its life. Most decent people would hesitate before doing that. I certainly did.

When I first started hunting, I wasn’t even sure what I was trying to do. I still remember the first animal I harvested and the moment I delivered the final knife cut. I felt sadness, guilt, and responsibility all at once.

Some people told me, “You don’t need to do that yourself.”

Maybe they’re right.

But then I started asking myself: who does it for us?

The meat and fish we buy in stores did not appear there on their own. Someone raised those animals. Someone slaughtered them. Someone prepared them so the rest of us would never have to see that part of the process.

Modern society hides death remarkably well.

But if we never face it, can we truly understand the value of life?

Even in my garden, I see this reality. When I sow seeds, cut grass, or harvest vegetables, I find insects and earthworms everywhere. Sometimes I accidentally kill them. Even growing food comes at a cost.

The more I observe nature, the more I feel that every living thing survives by receiving the energy—the life—of something else.

Because of that, I don’t think “feeling sorry” is enough.

The best way I know to honor those lives is to be grateful and not waste what I eat.

Hunting didn’t make me value life less.

It made me realize that my life, today, still rests on the sacrifice of countless others.

This is tempura soba from a small shop near me.

I’ve always liked soba because it feels lighter than most noodle dishes. When I eat it for lunch, I usually don’t get that sleepy feeling I get after heavier meals.

Soba has been eaten in Japan for a long time, and I think it’s one of those foods that looks simple but is surprisingly hard to do well. When there aren’t many ingredients, every little detail stands out.

This shop does a great job. The broth is clean, the noodles have a nice texture, and I felt better walking out than when I walked in.

I usually prefer cold soba, though.

One thing many visitors to Japan don’t know is that after you finish cold soba, some shops will give you sobayu -the hot water used to cook the noodles. You pour it into the leftover dipping sauce and drink it like a soup. It’s probably my favorite part of the whole meal.

For those who eat soba regularly, what makes a great bowl of soba for you?

When I recently entered a skeet shooting competition, I shot four rounds and scored 20, 18, 22, and 19 targets.

I started hunting a few years ago, but at first I missed far more shots than I hit. During the off-season, I began practicing regularly at the range with friends from the hunting community.

My shotgun is a Miroku 2700MC, a field gun with 26-inch barrels. It holds two shells.

At first, I spent most of my time shooting trap. No matter how much advice I received from experienced shooters, I seemed to get worse the more I thought about it. I kept missing targets even when I felt like I was shooting right at them.

The frustration grew. Missing became normal. Every trip to the range chipped away at my confidence, and eventually I started going less and less.

Then one day, a senior shooter said to me:

“Why don’t you try skeet?”

I didn’t know much about skeet shooting, but I decided to give it a chance.

To my surprise, I immediately started hitting 12 or 13 targets per round, compared to the two or three I had been hitting before. The changing angles of the targets felt much closer to hunting. Watching a clay target explode right in front of me gave me my first real sense of progress.

From that point on, I stopped shooting trap and focused entirely on skeet.

The experienced shooters at the range taught me many things—not only through their advice, but also through their example. During breaks, we shared hunting stories that had us laughing until our stomachs hurt.

Because of them, I learned to relax and focus on my own shooting.

What I also noticed was how everyone’s expression changed when a round began. The atmosphere became serious. I liked that feeling.

Each shooter was completely focused on solving the same problem: how to hit the next target.

It reminded me of my days at art school preparatory classes when everyone worked hard alongside people who shared the same passion.

There is something special about a place where people challenge themselves together while pursuing something they love.

Looking back, I think I was able to continue because of the people around me and because I found a discipline that suited me.

One piece of advice from a senior shooter has stayed with me:

“Forget the misses. Remember the good shots.”

I think that lesson applies to far more than shooting.

The ability to face the present moment without becoming trapped by past failures may be one of the most valuable skills we can develop.

Because of that, I’m already looking forward to the next hunting season.

Deep in the mountains of Japan, I found a strange mushroom-like organism unlike anything I had ever seen before.

At first, I thought it might be a new species.

After doing some research, it seemed more likely that this was a fungus being colonized by another fungus, and that the long blue-white fibers were part of that process.

The strangest thing was the texture.

It looked like soft hair, but when I touched it with a small branch, it was surprisingly firm and strongly adhesive.

Scientifically, it may be nothing more than one organism growing on another.

But standing alone in the forest, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had found something special.

At first, I called it “Pygmy.”

Later, I started thinking about the name “Yoko” as well.

Not because I know what it is.
Not because either name is correct.

There’s just something strangely meaningful about giving a name to something.

For a brief moment, it feels as though naming it makes you part of its story -and somehow makes it part of yours as well.

If this is the only time in my life I’ll ever encounter it, maybe that’s enough.

Which name would you choose: Pygmy or Yoko?

Or would you give it a completely different name?

This is only my personal experience.

I am a Japanese person living in Japan, but when I was younger I had no interest in religion at all. I could not understand why people believed in gods when I thought they did not exist.

However, on New Year’s Day I would visit a shrine, weddings were held in churches, and when someone passed away we would go to a Buddhist temple.

Of course, at Christmas we received presents surrounded by Santa Claus and Christmas trees.

Even as a Japanese person, I thought Japan was a strange country where everything was mixed together.

As I grew older, I began learning about various religions through books and the internet. Then I discovered that Japan has its own religious worldview called Shinto.

When I learned about the idea of the eight million gods—that gods dwell in stones, trees, and all things—I felt that it was an incredibly mixed style of belief.

We live on an island nation that experiences many natural disasters, and earthquakes occur frequently. I think that in Japan, people made gods out of forces that humans could not control.

That way of thinking made sense to me, even in modern times.

I came to understand that Japanese people have long respected and feared nature.

I seek a lifestyle that is in harmony with nature, and I am trying to live in a way that allows me to stay connected with nature within modern society.

I have also started visiting shrines and temples and collecting goshuin (temple and shrine stamps) because I wanted to create time for prayer.

I have heard that some people believe that placing these collected goshuin in a coffin when someone passes away can help them reach the Pure Land.

Although I do not necessarily believe all of these things literally, I want to value gratitude through prayer.

I feel that being alive here and now is not something to take for granted. It is something close to a miracle.

I am still searching and exploring, but I would like to continue sharing the lifestyle and ideas that I am developing along the way.

I started hunting in 2019.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that hunting wasn’t something I could learn on my own.

There was too much I didn’t know—how to move safely through the mountains, read sign, handle firearms, process game, and understand how experienced hunters approached the land.

So I started looking for people who could teach me.

At a barbecue hosted by my local hunting association, I met the man who would become the leader of my hunting group.

My first impression was memorable. He had a kind face and spoke gently, but there was something else about him. He reminded me of a tiger resting in the shade—calm and relaxed, yet impossible to ignore.

Over the years, I learned that my first impression was right.

He and the rest of the group taught me almost everything I know about hunting.

What I appreciate most about group hunting is the teamwork.

Before dawn, we scout, check feeding sites, make a plan, and move into position. Drivers and dogs work the mountains. Radio calls begin. Everyone focuses on their role.

Sometimes we harvest an animal. Sometimes we don’t.

Either way, the hunt is bigger than any one person.

Afterward, we process the meat together, share venison and wild boar, and spend the drive home talking about the day’s events over the radio.

Our leader often says that a successful hunt isn’t measured by the harvest.

It’s measured by whether everyone had a chance to contribute and everyone made it home safely.

After seven years, I’ve realized that hunting gave me more than skills.

It gave me mentors, friends, and people I trust.

That’s what keeps me coming back.

The reason I started mushroom hunting was because I watched a mushroom hunting feature on a TV program by the Japanese celebrity George Tokoro.

I saw people going into the forest and searching for mushrooms, and I thought it looked fun.

My friend and I started mushroom hunting together.

Knowing nothing, we walked through a dense forest searching for mushrooms.

If I remember correctly, we found our first mushroom within only a few minutes.

We were excited and happy.

As we went deeper into the forest, we found more mushrooms.

Without understanding anything, we became absorbed in collecting them.

The forest was quiet, and it felt as if there were only the two of us there.

Then, along the way, we realized something.

Which way had we come from?

We were lost.

It was our first time entering a forest, and we had lost our sense of direction. Deep in the forest, the strength of the light became constant, and no matter where we looked, the scenery looked the same.

For the first time, I felt fear.

By chance, the direction we chose was correct, and we were able to reach a road. We came out of the forest several hundred meters away from the entrance where we had entered.

It felt like fear and excitement coexisted together.

After that, we went to a souvenir shop and visited an old woman who could identify mushrooms.

She told us that we should have come a little earlier in the season.

She also told us that almost all of the mushrooms we collected were poisonous and inedible.

We were shocked, but even more than that, we became fascinated by mushroom hunting.

Since that day, we have gone mushroom hunting every year.

That was the beginning of our journey to search for matsutake mushrooms.

This was more than 10 years ago.