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05/29/2000 Archived Entry: "A Dove In The Hand"

I am lucky enough to live in two very cultured communities – Brooklyn, New York, and Cornwall, Connecticut. I don’t think I need to explain Brooklyn, but Cornwall is a remote place that most of you don’t know a thing about. It is in the northwest corner of Litchfield County, Connecticut (indeed, our local phonebook is called Northwest Corner), just south of the Massachusetts border and just east of the New York border. It is, in a way, a no-man’s land between the more fashionable and easily accessible towns of Litchfield, like Kent and Washington, and the Berkshire towns of Sheffield and Great Barrington, Massachusetts.

When I first moved to Cornwall 14 years ago I thought my neighbors were silly to talk about the different characters of the neighboring Connecicut towns, but it didn’t take me long to catch on. Sharon is Old Money. Goshen is about farming. Canaan’s population is largely trades people. Salisbury-Lakeville is filled with New Yorkers, and has been for a long time. Cornwall is a town of artists, writers, and eccentrics. James Thurber lived in Cornwall, as did many other New Yorker magazine writers and artists. Some say that started the tradition back in the 1930s. I think it is more than that. How live and let-live the native Yankee, largely Congregationalist population is. The ungiving soil. How narrow the Housatonic Valley is in our neck of the woods. How much of our land is wooded! But anyway …

We have a four-page, sometime six-page monthly newsletter called Cornwall Chronicle that demonstrates the talents of our town. It is edited, illustrated and financially supported by my neighbors and besides giving the news of the day – births, deaths, land transfers, political news, reports on zoning board meetings, etc. – it always has wonderfully witty or at least articulate letters to the editor. Here’s one from the May issue that particularly tickled me. It was written by Marc Simont, an accomplished illustrator who obviously has literary talent, too.

A DOVE IN THE HAND
With the coming of spring there is increased activity among the birds outside the kitchen window. Our lunch was interrupted the other day by a loud thump, which left a wet spot on the glass and a dove with a broken neck on the lawn. As I was heading for the woods with a shovel in one hand and the still warm dead bird in the other, I recalled a time a time at the Goshen Fair when I watched a chicken judge evaluating a small hen. I could see the breast feathers move as the judge palpated with experienced fingers. The hen gave soft muffled squawks, and the old man had a far-away look. I put aside wicked thoughts when I realized he was checking her for the pot and trying to decide what color ribbon to give her.

I was about to put my dead dove in the hole I had dug when I noticed how easily the feathers came off. To make a long story short:

In a small pan over medium heat put olive oil, chopped onion, and carrot. Put in bird and brown on both sides. Reduce heat to low, add red wine and chicken broth. Cover and simmer until tender, adding wine and broth as needed to keep from sticking. Serves one small person.