My life and lunch in alliterations

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Crispy Chicken for Two

I’m a girl who finds extraordinary comfort and satisfaction in a whole roasted chicken. But last week as the weather cooled, my stomach stumbled upon a desire for crispy skinned chicken. I didn’t want to deep fry anything, though I craved the sound of crackling meat in a pan and crunchy, paper-thin skin between my teeth. Something to savor September.

What I had to do, I knew, was butterfly and flatten the bird for a good pan-frying, a dinner ordeal I’d previously undertaken with Lacy’s help. On Thursday, for the first time, I butterflied a chicken all by myself!

First I arranged the chicken, rinsed and patted dry, breast side down on a large cutting board (I prefer one with a “meat moat” and used the large butcher block Lacy’s grandpa made for me). Wielding my Henckle kitchen shears with fiegned confidence, I cut up one side of the spine, snipping away from me, tailbone to the back of the neck. Then I cut along the other side to remove the entire spinal cord. Turning the chicken over, wings tucked under for leverage, I used my palm to apply quick pressure on the sternum, cracking it open so I could flatten the entire chicken.

With the breast side still up and the legs pointing away, I exchanged my shears for a paring knife. Time to remove the wishbone! I find that doing away with this little bone makes slicing the breast meat a breeze later (and fun fact: the wishbone is similar in size and shape to the clitoris!). I like to feel for the bone with my fingers, then insert the paring knife on it’s underside, tracing the curve from left to right. Next, easing the knife into the same incision, I angle the point upwards and feel along the top side. With that little wish all stenciled out, I insert my pointer and middle finger, wrap them around the bone and give a good pull. It usually comes out with one tug, but sometimes it snaps in the middle and I have to grasp and yank each side separately.

Is it sick to admit I love the textiles of butchery? I feel a strange intimacy with my food when prodding it, scraping away extra fat accumulations and petting it down with salt. Well, clearly I don’t think it’s sick at all, considering I ate the entire chicken over the course of the weekend, with the help, be assured, of someone dear.  

Now bear in mind that this was Thursday and I was actually prepping for a Friday night dinner date. After mincing together thyme, rosemary, parsley, garlic and kosher salt, I rubbed it under the skin, rubbed lemon juice and salt on the outside of the skin, wrapped the whole plated thing up in saran wrap and let it live in my fridge for 24 hours. Of course, you could rub it down and let it sit out for an hour before patting dry and setting it to sizzle in your biggest skillet. To do so the next day, I threw a slice of bacon in my pan, rendering the fat and flipping it a few times to crisp and brown on each side. I removed the little piece of pork for later (to crumble sparingly atop the chicken and salad greens) removed any little brown bits, and supplemented the bacon fat with an extra tablespoon of olive oil. When jumping-but-not-quite-smoking hot, I add the chicken, splayed out, skin down. I then placed my stock pot on top and weighted the whole thing down with my blender (my kitchen is a place of improvisation) to press the chicken into the pan and brown up every inch possible. If you have two large cast iron pans that nestle together, they are the perfect tools for this job.

Trying to disturb the chicken as little as possible, I tune into my kitchen spidey-sense, lowering the heat slightly and checking under a breast when I think it’s approaching the right shade of golden. When achieved, I lift up the stock pot (thank goodness my sweet date had arrived by then to help me, but you can set it aside, assuming you have a clean sink or counter surface), flip to the ugly, skinless side, and brown up again. Check a small chicken for doneness after 30 minutes of total cooking time, but a large chicken could require an entire hour. You can pop the chicken, pan and all, into the oven, but do NOT cover or your crispy skin will lose its integrity.

Clearly Friday night dates are a serious prospect in my kitchen, but it all proves worth it when served with scalloped sweet potatoes and a bottle of pinotage, and the sweet boy sitting across from me gently places a linen napkin in his lap. I really enjoy eating this chicken atop a green salad, barely dressed in a lemony-mustardy vinaigrette.

On Saturday, after sex and french toast and adventures in Grand Central Bakery and Uwajimaya, we came home to pick apart the cold leftovers. I cubed up a collection of white and dark meat for chicken noodle soup and sliced up the rest for sandwiches. He sliced the rye bread sturdily, the tomato thinly, and assembled, meticulously, a spread of other fixings. Looking over at him I exclaimed “You have a perfect mis en place!” Beaming back, he confirmed my mustard selection (“Just the dijon”) and slathered on extra. More pepper and parsley, I decided, tasting my soup.

Finishing leftovers always feels like a bit of an accomplishment. With company, the completion is utter enjoyment.

“We had a really good weekend,” I responded on Monday to a coworker’s inquiry.
“We?” she asked incredulously. “I go on vacation for a week and come back and now you’re a we?”


The next words out of my mouth were “Oh, shit.” I felt caught. And by my own net, no doubt.  

Summer’s ending and we’re still standing here together, he and I. The cooling weather has me not just crisping chicken skin and browning sweet potatoes, but even baking pumpkin pie, his favorite. And more than food, I’m craving him. Sometimes I feel so saturated in sweet syrupy feelings, you could just pour me on a waffle.

When I’m with him, I feel so confidently that I’m in the right place. Across from a kitchen table or side by side in bed, what could feel more right? But later, after the Tupperware is empty of leftovers and my apartment void of his presence, I admit I feel even smaller than before. My body aches with indecision. I can’t even discern if it needs to be fed.

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I'm young and live in Seattle and love to eat. Please, come in, peer through my kitchen window.

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