Serving Clovis, Portales and the Surrounding Communities
"Have you ever seen a live Cornish Game Hen?" asked The Lady of the House. We were at a local eatery where Cornish game hen was the special of the day.
"I've just seen them frozen in the grocery store," I said.
"Wrapped in white plastic," said The Lady of the House.
"Now there was this time I was taking a tour of a house that was for sale," I said. "This man and his wife were showing me the garage and there was this big cage full of birds. They were little round things going, 'Peep peep peep' and I asked if they were Cornish game hens."
"The man said they weren't and the woman said they weren't pets either," I said.
"They were probably quail," interjected The Lady of the House.
"Now in Boy Scouts we used to have Cornish game hens on campouts," I said. "We'd dig a hole, line it with rocks; not from the creek though because they'd explode. We'd build a big fire in the hole, burn it down to the coals. Then we wrapped our little hens in foil with a hunk of butter and threw them in the hole on top of the coals. Then we'd add a cast iron Dutch oven full of cobbler. We'd cover it all with hot rocks, a hunk of canvas and then some dirt and go off for the afternoon. We'd come back a few hours later, dig it all up and eat. The meat would slide right off the bone."
We ordered the Cornish game hens.
When they arrived at our table I found there were chopped hard-boiled eggs in the gravy. I'm not fond of hard-boiled eggs.
"Now wait a minute," said The Lady of the House. "You'll eat a bird in foil that's been buried under dirt but you won't touch a hard-boiled egg. I don't know about you."
I smiled and went on to enjoy our dinner, gravy and all.
Grant McGee is a long-time broadcaster and former truck driver who rides bicycles and likes to talk about his many adventures on the road of life.
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