Guilty.
I also remember eating roasted chicken in the grocery store parking lot, but really that falls more under the heading of lust.
I do NOT have a roast chicken addiction...I will never admit it. It has been forever since I overindulged in it and will only occasionally buy one for dinner when I just don't feel like cooking.
I must tell you that I have recently fallen even madly in love with Nigella Lawson, well MORE in love. She is a passionate, curvaceous British TV cook who might just be the only other person in the world who shares such a passionate, if not slightly obscene lust for food as I do.
I am presently working me through her amazing, funny, informative cookbook, "How to Eat" and at times it does tend to nod it's head in the direction of food porn. I'm not complaining and neither should you. I recently read the passage about how to make a roasted chicken aloud to my sister who turned and asked me if it was porn. I was titillated enough to embark on this journey if not for my own hedonistic needs then for my families hungry bellies. I have no problem having scape goats to use as decoys for my culinary adventures.
At first, when I bought the bird my house was not in the mood for roast chicken and the poor baby sat for two days awaiting it's transformation. I had bought shallots, garlic, lemon, tarragon and onions and red potatoes; all sat patiently waiting and greeted me each morning practically calling out in expectation. I also read and re-read and read again the almost sinisterly simple recipe. Surely I had missed something...
I did only buy 6 shallots when the recipe actually asked for 22 but I had the number six lodged in my brain and was sure this was the correct number, but being that Nigella does very little that isn't grand and abundant it was my bad.
So the day finally came when I was going to do the deed and I admit I read the recipe yet again. I started the chicken at 4pm anointing with oil and sea salt and half of a juicy lemon went up the butt along with a bouillon cube. I remember staring at it thinking; "this is so little seasoning, can this be right?" I added an extra tablespoon of olive oil to the pan as I was instructed in the anticipation of making a chicken jus when the done. I set a timer (something I have gotten in the habit of doing, it actually makes things MUCH easier) and went and watched a violently gross episode of Fringe while folding the weeks laundry.
About an hour in I went and tossed the shallots (unpeeled) and the cloves of two heads of garlic (again unpeeled) and whops I realized I had forgotten the tarragon so in that went as well. Tarragon is a lovely herb, I have memories of eating a fragrant lamb and pea stew that my great aunt made every year and loving the flavor of the tarragon that she used to flavor it. I need to cook more with it and was thrilled to be able to use the entire package in this dish.
I also had chopped up the potatoes and threw in a diced green pepper I had hanging about and half a white onion, added some olive oil, salt and pepper gave them a good shake in a sealed container an into the oven they went to meet their maker. I did look at the chicken and was again unsure if it was going to turn out as I was hoping but I've learned with cooking there always tends to be a moment of doubt that one must push through.
This is similar I find to writing my first paragraph of the day, or making the first crepe. It never quite turns out, but you end up pushing through it and eating it anyways.
So I closed the door and about half an hour later my house did indeed smell amazing. Lemony, and full of tarragon. Things could be worse. As I watched someones brain leak out of their ears on tv I wondered if I would be able to pull off the jus, I am not the best at gravy. I have been known to throw it down the sink and opt for the bottle of Heinz brown...I was hoping tonight would not turn out this way.
When there was about thirty minutes left of cooking time I went and threw some asparagus in a pan with some oil and a little sea salt and pepper and also squirted the other half of the lemon into the chicken pan and a little butter (well smart balance) but honestly you can't tell the difference. The chicken had transformed I noticed it was golden brown and the smell of the shallots, garlic and the roasted potatoes was divine. I was not going to mess up the gravy.
Finally when the timer on my microwave sounded and the episode of Fringe had ended I went and pulled the chicken from it's cozy home and was thrilled at how wonderful everything looked. The skin of the chicken was so crisp it was almost like glass. I let it rest for about 10 minutes and transferred it so I could work on the jus. I put the roasting pan on the stove; added some white wine, a cup of hot water that I had dissolved another bouillon cube in, grabbed a wooden spoon and said a prayer.
Well, the jus thickened perfectly, not a gravy, but more a chickeny jus that tasted delicious. The chicken was cooked to a turn; perfection! Juicy, flavorful and practically falling off the bone. Being that I cook for three and they can be picky, I was anxious but when my guy said "you can make this again," I knew I had hit it out of the park.
Dear Nigella, much love to you my dear, you are the queen of roasted chicken.
love,
an ever devoted roast chicken addict
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