Wildlife Chronicles

So the other morning I was deep into weaving one of my iMovies.  When my husband appeared I took a break to feed him his breakfast. While it was underway I glanced at our freezer contents, with an eye to our supper.  Without thinking, I murmured, “O look, 12 dove breasts.” At which my selectively hard of hearing husband’s head came up from his paper, and he said, “Let’s have that tonight.  We’ll do the slow-cooker recipe.”

 

At this, the base of my brain said,

 

“Hold it right there, Strange Unwelcome Idea.

The morning’s half-gone, the dove breasts a frozen block.

Someone will have to go to the store for mushrooms and cream of chicken soup.

The recipe requires every pan in our kitchen.

I’m in the middle of important work.

He should have married someone more interested in cooking.

Etc. Etc.”

 

To which my higher brain replied,

 

“He shot those doves and brought them home for us to eat.

Doves are mighty tasty.

Our evolved contract: When he cooks, I will happily clean the kitchen.

To every heaven-ordained purpose is given time to accomplish it.

So, why ever not?”

 

Before I knew it my hands were running warm water over the frozen block and he was off to the store and I had with only minor reluctance floured the breasts and then the kitchen filled with heavenly aroma.  Which made a nice container for my creative work the rest of the day.

 

There was indeed a mess. Which my recovering perfectionist self walked by a number of times until my iMovie was far enough along that  I felt like washing every pan in the kitchen.

 

This morning, a few days later, I found the leftovers in the fridge and heated three breasts, swimming in mushrooms, onions, and savory broth.  It was so good I took my portion and headed out to eat it under our crape myrtle. High praise indeed, to give something my full attention in that holy place! (Contrast to mindless eating while editing an iMovie…)

 

On my way to the bower I met a sleek young squirrel, scrounging for sunflower seeds under the bird feeder. To my surprise she held her ground, regarding me with bright wary eye.  I assured her it was dove in my bowl, not squirrel.

Author: Phoebe Dishman

Phoebe H. Dishman was born and raised in Beaumont, Texas. She is a wife, mother, and grandmother. An essayist and poet, she teaches adult Sunday school, compiles a monthly prayer calendar, edits the Big Thicket Association quarterly bulletin, and keeps a keen eye and ear open for birds.

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