Hen Roasting Mafia Style

Last month, I promised my oldest step-daughter, the fabulous Mae West, that I’d teach her how to roast a hen. I sent pictures and simple instructions via text messaging of a mafia-style roasting--I had butterflied the hen. See below:

First, talk to the chicken.

Then, show it who's boss.

Finally, let it know you mean business.

This Monday, Mae indicated that, humor aside, she wanted specifics. We spoke on the phone, discussing what pan to use, temperature, time, and seasoning options. Moments later, she called back. Apparently, her chicken had “butt wing flaps” and she wanted to know what to do about it. I asked if “butt wing flaps” was what I really heard her say. I suppose this term explains what I have going on in my own caboose department as I near middle age. I considered this briefly. “Just leave the hen’s butt alone. It’s fine like that.” I hoped by some means of transference that my bum is, too.

“Don’t forget to reach in the cavity and pull out the bag of gizzards and such,” I added. But our famously bold Mae apparently was not so fearless as to allow her hand to trespass the butt of a chicken.

“Oh, no!” she stated firmly, “I held up the chicken and shook it all out.” Sounds like the Mafia retained its influence after all. Either that, or due to the fact that having birthed two children and cleaned up mass amounts of inherently “gross stuff” since, my casual approach to sticking a hand up a hen’s ass qualifies me as a certain kind of brave in her world. Later that evening, Mae celebrated her triumph with a beautifully browned and glistening hen, butt flaps and all.

Tonight, having confidently cleaned and prepped my own hen, which roasted contentedly in the oven as I wrote the bulk of this post, the lovely Mae sent me a text about how hard she shook the hen. She wrote,”…I shook it like a bully shakes lunch money out of a child’s pockets…” Laughing hysterically, I stopped my writing and called her. You know what she said? “I took your advice. I was showing it who’s boss.”

And some people say their kids don’t listen….

She began to blog, by the way, at Anchors and Orchids. While her first post is pensive and sentimental, I am sure the sauce pot we all know and love ultimately will make her keen sass and wit felt as well. I look forward to every delicious morsel she offers.

Articulate Eggs

Each time we buy a new carton of eggs, I write my husband a message—one word per egg. It cracks him up—no pun intended—and is a little gesture of affection. Recently I wrote: The way you stare at us makes us nervous. Besides this group of eggs were tidbits of previously cracked and emptied shells. Last week I wrote: Do you think white makes us look fat? And on another carton: Oh my God! Which one of us will be the next to die? Two weeks ago there was something about how he was eggsactly the right person for me, which inspired a few egg-themed jokes and comments when he posted it to Facebook. This sure has put playing with one’s food on a whole new level.


I can’t look at eggs at the grocery without wondering which pack will better suit the length of the message I plan to write—12 or 18 eggs. And if I were to get the brown eggs, would that lead to a whole series of statements about representing minorities? I usually get cage-free vegetarian fed hens' eggs. Maybe I should play on this, too. “We endorse soy and meat-alternative choices,” they might read one day, “so put the chicks down.”

The eggs one buys are actually unfertilized products. They are chicken-wannabes stopped tragically mid-cycle. They are peepless wonders of perfection to me. I love their smooth ovals and have spent time photographing both whole eggs for the beauty of the light caressing rounded surfaces and cracked shells for their qualities of translucence. It is an examination of simple things, simple wonders. Yes, there is certainly a simple joy to opening a fresh carton of eggs and finding, as my husband did this week, two perfect rows of animated faces drawn on waiting eggs. I hope the chickens understand and forgive us both.