Eat for Two

In a sign that my sanity is a tenuous, tenuous thing, I made Cornish hens for dinner tonight (!!!), and as I was rubbing olive oil into their wee little bodies, I found myself a little weepy over their resemblance to BABIES, particularly as I rubbed it in under their little winglets. Mind you, I am in no way a vegetarian, nor was I weeping for the loss of the chickens’ lives, but was instead upset because I imagined someone salting and roasting an actual human baby (MY BABY) in a 450 degree oven for 15 minutes to crisp the skin, before baking it at 375 for thirty more minutes. The whole thing was immensely upsetting in every way imaginable, and a small tear may have been shed before my mother called and, because my voice was breaking, I had to explain that yes, I was weeping over tiny chickens.

I might also add that it has been several years since I made Cornish hens, and only did so because they were on sale for a lot less than the cost of a small roaster, and I was craving (!!!) roast chicken. I also did not enjoy the finished product, as it felt so gluttonous to just heap an ENTIRE CHICKEN, however small, on each plate, and yet half of one wasn’t enough. It was … not fun, baby comparisons aside, and I believe we are finished with the Cornish Hen Experiment of 2008.

This chicken craving came despite the fact that I barfed in the street this morning, cowering behind a neighbor’s garage while Sunny tried her best to “help” in the only way dogs, uh, can, if you know what I mean, and God I hope you don’t. It was unpleasant, to say the least. I rewarded myself with half of an English muffin with (oh my God) CHOCOLATE FROSTING on it, because I’d bought some for cupcakes I never made and … oh forget it. I frosted my English muffin. There’s no excuse for that, pregnant or not. No one should be frosting their breakfast toast.

Anyway, oh my God, to make this all more rambly, the Cornish hen weeping was assisted by, yet again, your friend and mine, “What to Expect When You’re Expecting”. Adam and I aren’t particularly schmaltzy people, though rest assured that I believe that marrying him was the single best decision I have ever, or will ever, make, but there is one ritual I’ve been reluctant to mention because it’s … well, it’s kind of CUTE, and I really do hate gushy posts. Of course, you’ll read this and think my God, that is so not remotely gushy, but remember, I AM ANTI-SCHMALTZ.

(For those of you seeking schmaltz, may I just say that my husband gets hotter every year and that I really do love him more every day, hotness aside? And it’s not fair, but I’m NOT COMPLAINING, because hey, we’ve only been together 10 years, and if he’s this hot NOW, he’ll CRUSH Sean Connery when we’re in our 60s, man.)

But … well, he’s been reading my pregnancy books, too, and occasionally, he reads them out loud to me so that we can see what the baby’s doing, or what new milestones we’ve reached, or will reach in the coming weeks. It’s been one of the highlights of my pregnancy, to tell you the truth, but it was almost ruined by “What to Expect…” when this week, the book compared the size of my baby to “that chicken breast you’re having for dinner.” Not just any chicken breast, mind you, but the ONE YOU HAD FOR DINNER.

Already horrified, Adam continued reading on to next week (Week 19), and the conversation went something like this:

“You’re baby’s about the size of an …oh my God. A … a MANGO DIPPED IN GREASY CHEESE.”

“It says that? Greasy cheese?”

“I don’t think I want to read this book anymore.”

Yeah, um, me neither? Because really, my baby is a greasy, cheese-covered mango? I get that they have to explain the uh, coating, but is such a foul visual NECESSARY? And that chicken breast I just had for dinner? No WONDER I’m choking up while I lube up my chickens, for chrissake. Is no food SACRED?

I hope you had/have a great dinner and an even better Thursday.

*The inevitable use of 10,000 Maniacs.

37 comments October 1st, 2008