NOTE: originally, this was conceived as an email, from Dakin to Jamie in the early fall of 2006... it was agreed that it was worth sharing with a nonexistant readership. The cockfight photo, consequently, is a painting by an artist named Marcus Pierce, and is titled cockfight #3 (though not the first painting of such that we've been acquainted with, oddly enough).
this evening, i decided that i would roast a chicken. now, roasting a
chicken is something that i've never done, which, after 12-13 years of
vegetarianism isn't that far beyond the scope of belief. it always
sounds so homey, so french; roast chicken, or i've just put a chicken
in the oven to roast. that sort of thing. the weather being somewhat
drizzly and damp, and being under some duress at work, i thought that
the comfort and distraction was just what i needed.
to begin, i went to the store on the way home to select the chicken.
granted, i have no idea whatsoever how much an entire chicken costs,
especially at hawaii's inflated prices. (i'm reminded of arrested
development, when the mother says "a frozen banana, michael? how much
could that cost? ten dollars?") the answer was graciously little, in
fact, in the area of a dollar a pound. i thought about all of these
things, as well as the evils of the factory farm as i fondled my chosen
bird; four pounds of foster farms "young" chicken. i glanced longingly
at the fourteen dollar free range chickens, thought back to afore
mentioned duress at work, and said a little prayer for my chicken's
joyless life among it's legion of doomed siblings.
fast forward a few hours later. in the kitchen, i've lovingly sliced a
bed of onions and tossed them in olive oil, laying down a fragrant pyre
in the required "small roasting pan." now comes the part where the
chicken must be handled, and manipulated into dinner. i remove said
chicken from it's little body bag, and proceed to "remove the giblets".
when reading those words, i had imagined what it was like the last time
that i handled a chicken: remove chicken from bag, give a good shake,
and the packaged "giblets" fall to the sink. grimace, transfer to
trash, and proceed. not so with foster farms. no, the removal of the
innards requires insertion of the hand into the cavity, and then the
subsequent scooping of liver, heart, and what i believe to be a gizzard
(and possibly some other parts, but i lost count rather quickly) into
the sink. then the parts must be transferred to the trash prior to
removing the fat, which is also done by hand. all the while, i admit
that i was a little squeamish, but i handle such things in the way that
one cleans up after a sick child or an errant pet; the entire time i
occupy my mind with the mantra "don't think about it, don't think about
it" until i've completed the task.
moving on, and with that little bit of unpleasantness behind us, i
rinse the cavity, as well as the chicken, season inside with salt and
pepper, stuff with quartered lemons, and brush with melted butter. now
it is time to truss the legs with... with... kitchen twine, which i do
not have. not to fear, i think to myself, wasn't it cook's illustrated
who suggested a substitution of dental floss? perhaps, but neither
cook's illustrated, nor the barefoot contessa seems to have taken into
account the tactical difficulties that one may encounter while trying
to tie dental floss around the legs of a greased chicken. it was
difficult, it was not at all as graceful as the picture in the
cookbook, but it was done, though with some effort and repositioning of
lemons in the cavity.
now we come to the impetus for my decision to document my first roast
chicken. it is now time to "tuck the wing tips behind the back." again,
we are dealing with the same buttered chicken, laying seductively on
(her? his?) it's bed of oil tossed onions. in life, the chicken did not
pace, contemplatively, with it's hands(?) behind it's back. no, the
chicken walks (struts, really) with the wings firmly at the side,
unless of course, the impulse strikes for a good stretch, or something
alarms it. what occurred next, were my little chicken to have known
what it's future held, would surely have inspired alarm. "tuck the wing
tips behind the back" is certainly a deceptive way to frame the
brutality that was required next. the only thing more alarming than
realizing that you must break the wings of the chicken is the
realization that you cannot break the wings of the chicken. it is
greasy, you are squeamish, and you suddenly want very much to once
again be vegetarian. however, again, there is a task at hand. "don't
think about it, don't think about it... etc" in the end, it was not
necessary to break the wings, and, while, again, not nearly as lovely
as the picture, we got into the oven.
i have to admit that i was rather shaken by the sheer violence of such
a simple act. in fact, i'm still a little off balance, but i have to
say that, after all that, the potatoes were a snap. quarter potatoes,
toss in oil, add salt, pepper, thyme, oregano, reassemble on a baking
sheet, and off they go, into the oven, and seemingly none the wiser.
not at all like the poor chicken, who, violated, crisped and browned
quietly on the rack overhead.
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