Hunt & Gather

In 2010, Victoria Loomis was a recently-divorced newly-turned vegetarian just starting culinary school; in 2020, she spends at least two months out of the year at a hunting camp and has become an advocate for ethical meat consumption. The years in between have seen her in restaurant kitchens, hunting lodges, taking a year off professional cooking to paint, and now working with friends on a series of pop-up drive-in movie events, exploring the boundaries of hospitality in a changed world. Sit with her for an hour—over a meal she’s prepared, if you can swing it—and you’ll see how this transition, dramatic on the surface, fits into her story of pursuing creativity where it leads and developing and communicating reverence for the natural world.

The frog legs were marinated in lemon juice and fresh thyme, and lightly dusted in flour before being sautéed in a cast iron skillet of ghee. They were the best I’d ever had—you’d give them to someone if you needed to explain why people eat frog legs—and the oven-roasted okra was perfectly balanced between light char and vegetal freshness.

I arrived at the hunting lodge where Loomis bases herself during hunting season, just past the edge of GPS coverage in rural Concordia Parish. She had called the previous day to ask what I wanted to eat; I’m bored to death of my own cooking and of my choices in takeout, so I begged her to choose, and I had worked up an appetite on the long but pretty drive from New Orleans. Bless her soul, she served frog legs and okra: two foods I adore but am too much of a coward to make. The frog legs were marinated in lemon juice and fresh thyme, and lightly dusted in flour before being sautéed in a cast iron skillet of ghee. They were the best I’d ever had—you’d give them to someone if you needed to explain why people eat frog legs—and the oven-roasted okra was perfectly balanced between light char and vegetal freshness. Loomis was the first chef I’ve ever interviewed who sat down and ate with me, making the experience a meal shared with a new friend—it made me dare to accept an offer of seconds.

Loomis grew up in Concordia Parish, a long sliver of delta across the river from Natchez. To attend the Louisiana Culinary Institute, she and her two then-small children moved to the Capitol City, commuting back towards home to  work in tourism-centered Natchez on the weekends. Her work in area kitchens, punctuated with a short stint at a private hunting lodge, was a mixed experience. Like most people who cook well, from the Michelin-starred to the proud home baker, Loomis enjoys serving, understanding that “cooking” truly extends to placing the meal before the eater. Even her skill and education, though, didn’t insulate her from sexism, the low pay many service jobs offer, and a certain kind of autopilot complacency some kitchens fall into. She described one head chef as telling her “exactly what to do so I wouldn’t have to work hard”—not the advice the young, creative cook was after.

In a part of the country where many people enter the woods as soon as they can walk themselves to a deer blind, Loomis didn’t begin hunting until her mid-twenties. Her vegetarianism had been inspired largely by the ick-factor of modern industrial farming—“I still don’t eat chicken”—but reality intervened. Concordia Parish is, by the common definition, something of a food desert, with limited options for stores. In nature, though, it’s anything but, with a climate urging plants to prosper and ample undeveloped space for wild animals to roam. So, to better feed her family, Loomis began to harvest what she saw around her. Over the course of our conversation, she used words like “harvest” and “take” when describing the food she hunts or forages, rather than the more aggressive “kill” or “bag”.

[Read our story about the evolution of deer hunting here.]

The main sources of meat available in the area are frogs, ducks, fish, and deer—the frog legs I had so enjoyed had come from a neighbor’s crawfish pond that I had passed on my way in. Louisiana law limits frog collection to only two mating-critical months in the spring, and the ponds produce more “fruit” than the family and friends around Loomis’ table can put a real dent in. Deer, likewise, abound—though last season, Loomis only took two.  She criticized showy hunters who are only in it to score big-antlered bucks, instead of culling older deer of both sexes to manage the population. And besides, “people don’t know how much meat is on a deer.” One of these, she took apart herself. “Processing plants get backed up, and some people only get out to hunt one weekend or two. I get it,” she explained, “but for me, I wanted to get the most meat and to be honest with the process.” It took her about three hours, resulting in a haul of venison, impressed peers, and a deepened respect for the natural world that sustains us.

I wanted to know about the meat. As with most mammals, the backstrap and the tenderloin are particularly good, and you can make “ham” from the haunches. I pressed—surely there was a secret delicious deer morsel? “Well,” she said. “… I cooked the heart in a red wine and peppercorn reduction. It was really good!”

What should the rest of us do? How should we start paying more attention to what we eat and where it comes from? “Plant a seed,” she answered. “Does that sound too basic? Plant a seed, fish. Go somewhere where you don’t have control.”

—Chef Tori Loomis

It refreshed me to hear Loomis talk about the purity of feeding herself and those she loved directly from the natural world, but I also knew I’d get hungry on the drive back and buy gas station candy. What should the rest of us do? How should we start paying more attention to what we eat and where it comes from? “Plant a seed,” she answered. “Does that sound too basic? Plant a seed, fish. Go somewhere where you don’t have control.” She talked about taking her dog “duck hunting” without firing a shot, instead observing her black lab, Elli, and seeing what she made of the surrounding nature. This is the strongest theme that emerged during my wide-ranging conversation with Loomis: accepting oneself as a part of nature, subject to its changes—even its threats—but also present to make use of its gifts.

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