Cooking Doves

I was wearing a long apron and cooking doves for dinner. I had a nice cheese sauce on the stove and some broccoli steaming. The doves roosted above the table, so I had to step on a chair, then on the table, then reach up and grab a couple.

They were easy to kill. I snapped their heads off, and squeezed the back end. A sort of football-shaped cut of meat just shot out of the head hole and landed in the pan. No boning or plucking necessary.

I had two microwaves, one at each end of the kitchen. I put a dove in each one and pressed the button. When I went to check on them, they had switched places. I could tell by the plates.

When I went to check again, one had disappeared. I took the other one out because it was done, and went over to get another bird. Then the other microwave's timer went off. Then the first one did again. They each had a cooked bird in them. I was only cooking for my father and myself, so this was one dove too many.

I walked out the front door. We had a porch (we don't usually). It was twilight, but some people were walking down the street. I called to the first person I saw walking alone. It was an innocuous and nondescript man in his 20s. I told him that I'd made too much food for dinner and I invited him in. He smelled the food and accepted.

We all ate at the table. I had made a pie earlier and we had that for dessert. After dinner, the stranger thanked me and left. We never asked his name, but it was a pleasant meal.