the cornish game hen

When I was growing up, it was a big deal in our house to have Cornish Game Hens for dinner. I mean, it was special. It was put on your Sunday shoes and a mind-your-manners sort of affair.

About 2 years ago, I thought it would be a nice gesture to cook them for Justin, who was my fiance then. I took out the fancy cookbook and made a delishish meal. I labored over those birds for hours. After my labor produced a lovely meal, I set the table, lit the candles, cued the romantic music and placed the food on the table. In the flickering candlelight, the hens nesteled in their Corningware, reminded me of naked baby chickens. I don't know why, but it really made me upset. I should have kept that thought to myself, because the minute I said something Justin burst out laughing. Then, for reasons unbeknownst to me, he began to make one of the hens dance. This made me cry. Really, really cry. I felt so sorry for the poor, dead baby bird and couldn't eat it. I still can't today and I'm totally not even a vegetarian.