Spatchcocked chicken
When
my kids were growing up, Sunday dinner was an event. My brother and his kids and
assorted friends came for dinner, and sometimes I cooked for fifteen or twenty.
Those were always joyous occasions. My brother would go around the table, and
each person had to tell about their week. Lots of laughter. And always a
special meal—I remember even doing turkey Wellington, a recipe I wish I had
now. Once, when I tried an old country recipe for hamburger/cornbread
casserole, my brother fixed me with a long look and asked, “Sis, is the budget
the problem?”
These
days, Sunday dinner is sort of special but get glossed over by other events, etc.
Sometimes Jordan even suggests that our fridges and freezers are full, and we
should have leftovers—that seems to me a violation of the social order, but I try
to go along. Tonight, though I fixed a real Sunday dinner. Jordan was gone to
an afternoon cookie party, and I had been warned that Christian had a major
event last night, and I should not ask him for anything. But I talked to him on
the side, and he agreed that we could spatchcock a chicken.
A
friend asked me, via email, what my day held, and when I said I was hoping
Christian and I could spatchcock a chicken, she replied she had no idea what
that was. So in case you don’t know: you use kitchen shears to cut along the
backbone of the roasting hen (not a fryer) and spread it open—that was the part
I thought I could have done, but when I watched Christian do it, I realized it
took more strength than I have in my hands. Then you open the chicken up, turn
it breast side up, and press with both hands on the chest bone until you hear
it crack. We had a five-pound hen, and it cooked in an hour. I slathered it
with herb butter before baking, and it was moist and flavorful. Maybe the herb
butter was a bit too salty, but that’s my only hesitation.
My dinner plate
with an enormous piece of chicken
but it was so good
I
sided it with corn pudding, an old-fashioned dish that I’ve been longing for—and
no, I don’t think my mom ever cooked it. It’s not something I remember from
childhood. Tonight I used a “quick” recipe that includes a box of Jiffy cornbread
mix. With corn kernels and creamed corn, it was quick and easy to put together,
and delicious, albeit pretty rich and not good for the diet. Heavy with butter,
eggs, and sour cream. My only problem was I underestimated the quantity—it wouldn’t
fit in the largest casserole I have, which is not very big. I had to call into
the house for a larger one. We also had lightly sauteed asparagus, a family favorite.
To me,
this was what Sunday dinner should be. I enjoyed fixing it and eating it. Never
mind that I got chicken grease down the front of my favorite pink T-shirt.
And on
to the trivia of the day: I love reading book lists, bestseller lists of
titles, two-sentence reviews. In other words, I like knowing the wide array of
books out there in our wonderful book world. My Austin son-in-law is a real
honest book collector, and I love finding titles for him. He will be deluged
this Christmas, and I think I have enough ideas for two or three years of
birthdays and Christmases. Today though I found a gem of a children’s book. I
often find books that make me wish my children or grandchildren were little and
would read this book. Today’s find as A Christmas Mitzvah, by Jeff Gottesfeld and Michelle Laurentia Agatha. If the cover is an indication,
the illustrations in this book are delightful. It tells the story, based on a
real person, of a Jewish man who each year at Christmas did the job of a
Christian who wanted to spend the day with family. Over thirty years, the man pumped
gas, waited tables, emptied bed pans, and did countless other daily jobs. Truly
inspiring. And charming.
Books spinning off the Jane
Austen canon are everywhere these days, though Stephanie Barron seems to
dominate. She has a new novel entitled Jane Austen and the Year Without Summer.
I hooted because I titled my first published novel A Year with No Summer.
The marketing department at the NY publisher objected, saying “year” and “summer”
were intangibles and kids wouldn’t identify The book came out as After Pa
Was Shot, which led my mom to snort and say, “More violence!” And that was
back in 1978. Apparently there really was a year without summer—1816—when severe
cold swept across the northern hemisphere, causing food shortages. It was thought
to be the after-effect of a catastrophic volcano explosion in Indonesia. Yes,
even then we lived In one big world together. So much for isolationism.
Not to end on a sour note,
but my latest pet peeve is magazines that insert perfurmed advertising pages. I
do not want to be assailed to overly heavy or sweet aromas when I’m reading a
food magazine. Yep, the offender was Bon Appetit.
And so we begin a new week,
with Christmas drawing ever closer. I hope you have lots of good things on your
calendar.
No comments:
Post a Comment