Who's The Turkey Now

I had planned to make dinner tonight for my grandmother: cornish game hens with my famous cheese rice. By 4:00 everything was purchased, laid on the kitchen counter, and ready to go. Only one problem. At some point between the purchasing of poultry and the cooking of it, I managed to lose my mind.

You see, the cornish hens were so little. And cute. I don’t know why, but running them under water reminded me of bathing babies in the sink.

That idea pretty much did me in. The thought of cooking these little hens seemed akin to sticking a fetus in the oven, and I was bowled over by waves of nausea just thinking about it. I’ve cooked turkey a thousand times (just ask the firemen who’ve extinguished my flaming kitchen), but for some reason all I wanted to do with these little birds was wrap them in a warm blanket and give them names (Hansel & Gretel, perhaps?).

I know. I swear I’m not on any meds.

I tried to be rational - clearly, I was having a simple biological clock malfunction. I’m 28 and don’t have babies of my own. I’m transferring my emotions. Totally normal. I’ve developed a mothering instinct for anything small, including...dead birds. I hope to God we don’t have any mice in the house. Things could get ugly real fast.

Happily, I knew where to turn. My grandmother never had trouble paddling my cute little toosh when I was young, and just as I suspected, she had no problem popping the hens into her Oven of Death.

Knowing my place, I stepped aside and dedicated myself to some very plain, non-adorable, brown rice.