The beautiful places foraging takes me--Provincetown The kid, framed by two middle-aged men holding rifles, held the pheasant in his arms. The body of the limp bird flapped against the boy's arms and he smiled, proud of the pheasant. The sun was low on the horizon, the ocean only a distant blue smear. Vast dunes spread before us.

"Thanksgiving dinner?" I asked.

They smiled.

I could feel the elation of the hunt, the story of how they got this bird early on Thanksgiving day. I wanted to ask who was going to pluck the bird, clean it and cook it. There were a lot of soft brown feathers to deal with. For a moment I was jealous of the bird. Pheasant tastes delicious. But I knew I wouldn't be capable of killing the bird. And this day was devoted to eating only food we had gathered ourselves.