Cornish Game Hens for Two — The Kitchen Warm Enough to Live In

The lake was doing what the lake does this week: changing color hourly, sometimes by the minute, the way grief does. Iron gray at dawn. Steel blue by ten. Almost green by noon when the sun broke through. Pewter again by four. Black by six. I walked the lakefront with Sven on Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Saturday, and the lake was different every time, and the lake was the same every time, and both things are how it works. Jakob (Anna's middle, recently graduated) has a job. He hates the job. He is figuring it out. He called me Tuesday for advice. I told him: that is what your twenties are for. The first job is supposed to be unsatisfying. The first job teaches you what you do not want. He said, "Grandma, that is not super helpful." I said, "It is the truth. Helpful is not always the same as comforting." He laughed. He hung up. He kept the job for now. He will figure it out. Lena (Anna's youngest, college freshman) is in college now. She calls me sometimes. The calls are about boys, mostly. I listen. I do not give advice. I am eighteen-year-old's grandmother. My credibility on boys is suspect at best. I tell her the kinds of things a grandmother is supposed to tell her: be careful, be brave, trust your gut, do not date the one who reminds you of someone you do not like. She thinks I am wise. I am, in fact, just old. The two get confused sometimes in the right direction. I cooked Köttbullar with cream gravy this week. Mamma's meatballs. The exact recipe. Beef and pork in equal measure, breadcrumbs soaked in milk, one egg, grated onion, salt, pepper, allspice, the secret pinch of ground ginger that nobody else uses. Rolled small, browned in butter, finished in cream gravy with a spoon of soy sauce (the inauthentic Mamma trick that makes it taste right). Served with mashed potatoes and lingonberry preserves. Thursday: soup. Always soup. Gerald said, "You are the most reliable woman in Duluth." I said, "I am the most reliable woman in this kitchen." He said, "Same thing." I do not think that is the same thing. I think that is a kindness Gerald gives me because Gerald is kind. I take the kindness. I do not argue. I lit a candle in the kitchen for no particular reason. Maybe for Mamma. Maybe for Pappa. Maybe for Lars. Maybe for Paul. Maybe for all of them. The candle is a tall white tapered one, set in a brass holder Mamma had on her dining room table for forty years. I let it burn down. The dripping wax made a small white pool on the brass. I cleaned it off. I lit another one the next night. It is enough. It has to be. And on a morning like this, with the lake doing what the lake does and the dog at my feet and the bread on the counter and the kitchen warm enough to live in, it is. I have learned, slowly, that there is a kind of competence that comes only with age. Not wisdom, exactly — wisdom is a word too grand for what I mean. Competence. The competence of having watched many things go wrong and many things go right and having developed an internal database of which is which. The competence is, perhaps, the only thing that improves with age in a body that is otherwise declining. I will take the trade. It is enough.

The Köttbullar carried me through the middle of the week—Mamma’s meatballs do what they have always done, which is hold the ground steady. But there is another recipe I return to when I want something that feels like a small ceremony without becoming a project, something I can put in the oven and then sit down with tea and let the kitchen do its own work. Cornish game hens for two are that recipe. They are old-fashioned in the best way, the kind of thing that requires very little of you while giving quite a lot back, and on a week when the lake is changing color by the hour and the candle is burning down in the brass holder, that kind of cooking is exactly right.

Cornish Game Hens for Two

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 1 hr | Total Time: 1 hr 15 min | Servings: 2

Ingredients

• 2 Cornish game hens (about 1-1/2 lb each), patted dry
• 3 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
• 1 teaspoon dried thyme
• 1 teaspoon dried rosemary, crumbled
• 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
• 1 teaspoon kosher salt
• 1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
• 1 small lemon, halved
• 2 cloves garlic, lightly smashed
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• Fresh thyme or rosemary sprigs, for garnish (optional)

Instructions

1. Heat the oven. Preheat your oven to 400°F. Let the game hens sit at room temperature for about 15 minutes while the oven heats.
2. Make the herb butter. In a small bowl, combine the softened butter, dried thyme, dried rosemary, garlic powder, salt, and pepper. Mix until evenly blended.
3. Prepare the hens. Rub the herb butter all over the outside of each hen, and work a little under the breast skin as well. Drizzle the olive oil over both birds and rub it in briefly. Place a lemon half and a smashed garlic clove inside the cavity of each hen.
4. Roast. Set the hens breast-side up in a small roasting pan or oven-safe skillet, leaving a little space between them. Roast at 400°F for 55 to 65 minutes, until the skin is deep golden and the juices run clear when the thigh is pierced, or an instant-read thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the thigh reads 165°F.
5. Rest before serving. Remove from the oven and let the hens rest, uncovered, for 8 to 10 minutes before serving. This keeps the meat juicy. Garnish with fresh herb sprigs if you like, and serve with roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes, or a simple green salad.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 490 | Protein: 43g | Fat: 34g | Carbs: 2g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 530mg