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.

Smells Like Green Spirits

I've recently become enamored with the weekend cocktail. The past few weeks, I come home from work on Friday, gather together ingredients, perhaps prep up some herbs and garnishes, shake shots of liquor over ice and tinker up a tasty cocktail. I may tinker with it, but this little recipe becomes my go-to again on Saturday or Sunday, maybe a pre-funk drink before going out, maybe a cocktail with company after dinner or hell, after brunch.

I had bought a huge bag of pea shoots at my new favorite grocer - the super-cheap Hau Hau market in the international district. I came home with a $5 bag full of fruit and salad fixings and still-attached chicken breasts and I' think "how the hell does one person eat all these pea shoots?"

I found you can drink them.

Searching the internet, I realized I had all the ingredients for a cocktail called the Pea Shoot Gin Flower. The only odd part was combining equal parts pea shoots and cold filtered water in the blender to make a sludgy, vegetal puree. It tasted sweet and healthy and fresh, not very different from freshly squeezed wheatgrass juice. But let me tell you, this cocktail was bright green.

Green like absinthe in Moulin Rouge technicolor (though it totally lacked this ingredient). Green, appropriately, like new growth in a rainy spring. It even tasted like the color green. I made it, of course, on a damn grey day. In all the cocktail was very refreshing, and my only warning is that the delicate flavors can easily be overwhelmed by the ginger ale.

2 shots gin (or 1 if you're feeling wussy)

2 shots pea shoot puree

splash St. Germain Elderflower Liquer

giner ale

1 stick seeded cucumber and 1 sprig mint for garnish

Shake the gin, pea shoot puree and St. Germain over ice. The puree needs to be strained, and I had some trouble with it clogging my shaker - hopefully yours is better. Pour into a tall glass with more ice, garnish and top with ginger ale. Sip and feel refreshed.

Turning Over A New Crepe

"A crepe is one of the few things I've never attempted to make," I told my new sweetness. We were wandering the horribly named BURP, Ballard's "urban picnic." We passed by lines for pizza and ice cream, crepes and cupcakes, finally happy to sink our teeth into a burger and some poutine ("Sure, we can make it for you," Skillet's server said when I asked for the latter off the menu), but in general the festival was pretty pathetic. The Maritime sponsored beer garden was a sad cage, created to keep the children out and the money in. We made a lap, lined up in front of my favorite airstream truck, then returned to his apartment to sit on the outdoor deck, burger in one hand and beer in the other.

Somehow, a few short hours later, I was running away from my sweet boy. He tried calling me back, freshly-showered and shirtless in his doorway, and I turned once to look at him before I descended the stairwell. I stalled at the intersection, a waiting pedestrian, but didn't look back again. Though I knew he wasn't following me, I broke into a run while crossing the street, heart pumping faster than my feet as I beelined for the closest bus stop. The right route came almost immediately and I soon realized I'd left my wallet behind in the boy's apartment. Without my bus pass, I decided I'd rather charm my way back home than return with my tail between my legs.

My stomach felt awful on the bus and after. Why did I run away?

It's scary, you know, liking somebody.

I stopped at the gym and then walked home the long way in order to ease my stomach. Cashless, cardless, my emotions in chaos, I took a quick inventory of my kitchen, knowing I would inevitably end in the pantry with the jar of Nutella.
Staring at the jar, I recalled Steven and our morning after the Built to Spill show when I lied to my work, saying I had a dentist appointment and would be an hour or so late. "I'm gonna to spoil you rotten," he said excitedly. "I'm gonna spoil you with waffles." After the late night of memorable music and less memorable whiskey, I emerging from his shower, drawn to the kitchen by the sent of Belgian waffles. A new jar of Nutella graced his kitchen counter.

"No, not waffles," I thought, flipping to a crepe recipe in Joy of Cooking.

After the first crepe, it was pretty easy to get the hang of it. I had the wrist-to-pan rotation movement down, having pretty much mastered it at the age of 10 when I learned how to cook omelets. The key, and the hardest thing for me, is to be present and conscious in the kitchen. No multi tasking allowed, as these suckers only take a couple minutes on each side. I placed them on a warm plate in the oven and after the next crepe was safely swirled in the pan, I would use a rubber spatula to spread a thin layer of Nutella over half of the warm crepe. I'd fold the crepe in half, give it another dab of Nutella, and then fold it in half again so each one was folded up in pretty little corners. Top with more Nutella and some whipped creme, or maybe just some lemon zest.

I particularly liked them folded into quarters and stacked one on top of the other so they form decadent layers of alternating dough and Nutella layers, then topped with a generous amount of lemon zest and a dollop of plain yogurt. I love the tangy contrast, though some freme fraiche would be equally fantastic and some unsweetened whipped creme (or grand marnier or hazelnut flavored!) would make it scrumptiously dessert-worthy.

I tried to settle my mind before bed, taking comfort in my kitchen staples, always there for me when I'm in a financial or emotional pinch. I feel like if my parents ever made crepes or if I'd learned to make them at an earlier age, they would have been my childhood favorite, surpassing even my beloved french toast.


Basic Crepes (makes 10 8-inch crepes) adapted from Joy of Cooking by Irma Rombauer, Marion Rombauer Becker and Ethan Becker
Combine in a blender or food processor until smooth:
1/2 cup all purpose flour
1/2 cup milk
1/4 cup lukewarm water
2 large eggs
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
fresh lemon zest

Pour the batter into a bowl with a lip or one that can easily rest a ladle. Cover with plastic wrap and let stand for at least 30 minutes or refrigerate for up to 2 days. This allows the flour to thoroughly absorb the liquid and fives the flatten int he flour a chance to relax. Place a nonstick crepe pan over medium to medium-low heat. Coat with a little unsalted butter.

Stir the batter and pour or ladle 2-3 tablespoons into the pan. Lifting the pan off the heat, tilt and rotate it so the batter forms an even, very thin layer. Turn the crepe over, using a spatula or your fingers and cook until the second side is golden. Remove to a piece of wax paper or to a warm plate in a low oven. Continue cooking the rest of the crepes, buttering the pan and stirring the batter before starting each one.
It's a comforting and comfortable pattern. The crepes go quickly once you get into a routine. I'm definitely making these again next time I plan on serving dessert or maybe just a sweet breakfast in my home.

P.S. I went back to the boy's apartment the next morning. We have since made crepes toghether - both the Nutella described and savory ones with brie, thyme and port-simmered mushrooms. New things are scary, esecially in all this post-Bugs business, but as Julia Child said when flipping omelets (or was it hash browns?) "All you need are the courage of your convictions." I thought about this while flipping crepes.