Three French hens.

Long ago, in a faraway land perfumed with heady balsam and the wild North Atlantic’s briny tang, UMaine's Hilltop Dining Commons decided that they’d fit a sow with a fine silk hat and go all fancy for the final celebratory holiday meal of the year.

As those of you who attended a college/prep school/boarding school/prison are aware, the culinary finery that is put forth by the average cafeteria is usually limited to tarted-up extruded meat products, lukewarm soup that originated from gigantic, industrial drums and soggy, deep-fried starch-bits. Hilltop Dining Commons, however, was usually more up to snuff and had, by the time I graduated, extended their fairly creative cafeteria-style entree/side selections to a full salad, soup, and stir-fry bar. Plus, once a semester, the Maine Lobster Council (yes, there is one of those) donated lobsters for the Steak and Lobster Night, which I, during my four years at beloved Maine, never missed.

Nonetheless, when we began to see flyers advertising an olde-timey Yule Ball-themed finale dinner, we were sore afraid. No good can come of this, I thought, as I saw allusions to wassail, figgy pudding (uh, what the feck is that?) and, most alarming, "wilde game."

Granted, this was Maine, and while the state in general was likelier than most places to provide a righteous bounty of non-domesticated protein, I wasn't entirely certain that we'd necessarily need to be confronted with the prospect of going hungry in the face of poorly prepared deer and moose venison, bear cutlets, or, God forbid, sundry lacustrine or pelagic waterfowl. As the "feaste" drew nearer, the organizers let slip a few more details of what would be served. To our mute horror, "French hens" appeared on the menu, spawning a raging debate about what makes a hen French, necessarily. Would it be rude to the other woodland fowl? Did it, even in stifling heat, don a kicky beret?

When darkness fell over Central Maine at 3 PM that night, we found ourselves eerily quiet as we made our way through the sub-arctic chill to the Commons. That afternoon, as a backup, we'd purchased a case of ramen, lest we find inedible the "holidaye treates" that had been prepared for us.

I found myself standing in front of Hundreds of Angel Pins on Your Hat Surly Serving Lady and blankly asking for a "French Hen", which was being served wrapped in a protective layer of tinfoil. Shapeless and about the size of a toddler's head, it was unceremoniously dumped on my tray with a wet-nap and the other "treates" I'd asked for and I made my way to the sitting area to begin consumption. None of the others in my group had dared order the hen and sat mutely staring at me, awaiting the un-mummification of the tin-clad parcel that was, at that point, emitting a vaguely poultry-from-a-spit odor. Yet, there could have been anything in there. As I began to wonder once again what had become of Jimmy Hoffa's remains, I peeled back the foil to reveal a mass of flesh and bones that had, at one point in the not-too-distant past, been a smallish bird. Like a tiny chicken. A tiny chicken -

Wait -

Squab?

No - they wouldn't be able to clear that through the University. I jabbed at it with a utensil for a moment as we regarded it with wonder and apprehension. What kind of bird is this small and yet looks remarkably chicken-like in death?

At that moment, a (balding) woman who was wiping some spurped-over ranch dressing off the counter of the salad bar noticed the commotion coming from my end of the table.

"It's a goddamn Cornish game hen, you assholes", she belched. "Now eat it."

While not as profoundly disappointing as the partridge vs. quail debate that was to become a part of my life three years later, I have to admit that I ate that hen with less gusto once I found out that a) I'd been deceived and b) someone hadn't blown it away in the woods. And, much like a crab, it was a lot of g-d work for about three largish mouthfuls of food.

And so, on this third day of Christmas, I am reminded with wistful nostalgia of the time that the University of Maine provided me with a purportedly festive, yet nearly unidentifiable avian carcass upon which I would sup.

Until tomorrow, I remain,

Domonic (enoughwiththebirddays-whendowegettolordsa'leaping?) Potorti