Ahoy, egulleteers. I've really done it now. Imagine a well-lubricated dinner party at which the conversation turns, prodded by a splendid pumpkin pie, to Thanksgiving, to its own upcoming, sure-to-be-equally-well lubricated festivities; and then-- naturally, inexorably-- to Turducken. The problems, all agree, are threefold: 1) Size. It simply feeds too many for the projected intimate gathering. 2) Novelty. Surely this is a high-concept dish in which splash trumps taste. 3) Name. It has "turd" in it for heaven's sake. The answer? Chicquailant. The "ant" is pheasant, of course; the rest explains itself. Right off the bat, problems 1 and 3 vanish! Chicquailant is compatatively trim! Chicquailant sounds positively elegant! (Sibilant chic, pursing the lips in a plosive kiss to expire, slow sigh, on "lant". Shee. Quay. Lo(ng). ) In the light of day, It appears that I have made a bet that I could make such a thing. But I have never cooked a pheasant, or even a quail. Chicken, sure. Duck even. Still, I am game-- But how to tame the game? And how, oh how, to address problem 2? Eureka! Consult the experts! Oh mighty egullet, font from whence collective wisdom springs, help me! Speak to me! How can I make my chicquailant-- AND make it memorable? I invoke the masters of technique and taste: Help me to silence the scoffers. Help me to recipe.