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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