Honoring the past

My mother wasn't a particularly good cook.  The youngest of three daughters, I 'm thinking now that she imagined larger things, even as my Grandma, her mother, was a camp cook for Northern California firefighters, canned beans, and made preserves.

My childhood memories of visiting Northern California where my Grandma lived, when my Grandpa was still alive, were magical with enjoying the community store that they ran, and exploring the attic, full of all sorts of interesting artifacts.  And they lived in a small town close to the Oregon border, with access to wonderful hikes, blackberry-foraging, and rivers nearby.

What's prompted this reflection this evening is a long-ingrained practice of making broth from bones.  Always with chicken and turkey, I was taught.  And I always do that, now with an Instant Pot making it easy.

This evening, I baked two Cornish Game hens.  They were on holiday sale at a local market.  I'd never cooked one before.  Hmm.  

First, they're really small.  Really small.

Second, they were stuffed with a strange giblet and neck mixture (which didn't match their size).  

So I first made giblet broth, honoring my mom and grandma, trying to just think about throwing out the necks, gizzards, and odd pieces, after the broth was done.

But, after the hens were done, and I extracted the breast and thigh meat, I put all of the bones into the Instant Pot, telling my gardening companion (aka my husband) that I would be throwing out the bones.

I couldn't do it. 

I picked through the bones, extracting the small bits of meat, to put back into the broth. I was channeling my thrifty Depression-era Grandma and my Mom. I will not be buying Cornish Game hens again.

Uh, I come by this naturally from the Wagner (paternal) side of my family, too.