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Cornish Hens with Potatoes -- The Food of Waiting

The ramps won't be up for another month but I'm already thinking about them, already planning the drive to Harlan County, already imagining the smell of the woods in early spring. The anticipation of ramps is almost as good as the ramps themselves, the way the anticipation of a grandchild is almost as good as the grandchild, except not, because no anticipation is as good as the actual child, the actual weight of a baby in your arms, and I am waiting for that weight the way I wait for ramps — with impatience and longing and the knowledge that it will come when it comes and not before.

Made a simple supper Wednesday — fried potatoes and onions, the transition food, the food of waiting. Simple enough that my hands could make it without my brain, which was in Louisville, which was where Amber was, which was where the baby was, getting ready to arrive.

The baby did not come this week. Amber called Sunday and said she's tired of being pregnant. I said I know. She said you don't know, you've never been pregnant. I said I've been in the room three times while someone was and the room is bad enough. She laughed. The laugh of a woman who is nine months pregnant and tired and ready and still able to laugh at her father, which is the kind of strength that doesn't come from exercise or nutrition, it comes from being Amber Beth Hensley Okonkwo, and that is its own kind of strong.

I made fried potatoes and onions that Wednesday because my hands needed something to do and my brain was already in Louisville, but what I was really after was the same thing I’m always after this time of year — something rooted, something that smells like patience. Cornish hens with potatoes is that supper: the kind of thing you put in the oven and let alone, the kind of thing that fills a quiet house while you wait on news that hasn’t come yet. It’s waiting food, and I mean that as a compliment.

Cornish Hens with Potatoes

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 1 hr | Total Time: 1 hr 15 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

  • 2 Cornish game hens (about 1 1/2 lbs each), thawed if frozen
  • 1 1/2 lbs small red or Yukon Gold potatoes, halved
  • 1 medium onion, cut into wedges
  • 3 tablespoons olive oil, divided
  • 1 teaspoon garlic powder
  • 1 teaspoon onion powder
  • 1 teaspoon paprika
  • 1 teaspoon dried thyme
  • 3/4 teaspoon salt, divided
  • 1/2 teaspoon black pepper, divided
  • 2 cloves garlic, minced
  • Fresh parsley, chopped, for garnish (optional)

Instructions

  1. Preheat oven. Heat oven to 400°F. Lightly grease a large roasting pan or rimmed baking sheet.
  2. Season the hens. Pat Cornish hens dry with paper towels. Rub each hen all over with 1 tablespoon of the olive oil. Combine garlic powder, onion powder, paprika, thyme, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper in a small bowl, then rub the mixture evenly over both hens.
  3. Prepare the potatoes. In a large bowl, toss halved potatoes and onion wedges with remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil, minced garlic, and remaining salt and pepper until well coated.
  4. Arrange the pan. Scatter the potatoes and onions around the edges of the roasting pan. Place the seasoned hens breast-side up in the center.
  5. Roast. Roast uncovered for 55–60 minutes, stirring the potatoes once halfway through, until the skin is deep golden brown and the juices run clear when the thigh is pierced. An instant-read thermometer inserted into the thickest part of the thigh should read 165°F.
  6. Rest and serve. Let hens rest 5 minutes before cutting in half with kitchen shears. Arrange on a platter with the roasted potatoes and onions. Garnish with fresh parsley if desired.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 520 | Protein: 38g | Fat: 28g | Carbs: 30g | Fiber: 3g | Sodium: 520mg

Craig Hensley
About the cook who shared this
Craig Hensley
Week 448 of Craig’s 30-year story · Lexington, Kentucky
Craig is a retired coal miner from Harlan County, Kentucky — a man who spent twenty years underground and seventeen hours trapped in a collapsed tunnel before he was twenty-four. He moved his family to Lexington when the mine closed, learned to cook his mama Betty's Appalachian recipes from memory because she never wrote them down, and now he's trying to get them on paper before they're lost. He says "reckon" and "fixing to" and means both. His bourbon-glazed ribs are, according to his wife Connie, "acceptable" — which is the highest praise she gives.

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