Fifty Shades of Chicken: A Parody in a Cookbook (2 page)
Read Fifty Shades of Chicken: A Parody in a Cookbook Online
Authors: F.L. Fowler
roast chicken with brandy-vanilla butter
Chicken
T
he brandy is definitely not a good idea. But it’s time to celebrate—here’s to flying the coop, to a new life in the big world! I want to shake my tail.
Before I know it, there he is, my Mr. Blades. Somehow he always shows up when I’m feeling vulnerable and raw.
He takes me from the fridge and lays me gently on my back on a platter. His fingers are so strong and commanding, and the alcohol is making me cocky.
“Does this mean you’re about to make dinner with me?” I blurt.
His expression is hooded. “No, Chicken. First of all, I don’t make dinner, I cook … hard,” he says. “Second, we need to look at some recipes together. Third, you’ve had too much brandy and you need a rinse.”
Recipes? Me, in a recipe?
I hear my subconscious squawking a warning from somewhere far across a brandied mist.
Blades holds me under the faucet. The touch of his hands and the flowing water make my tail convulse deliciously. The tension grows unbearable. I feel precarious, as if I were about to fall for him again. A cluck of longing emerges from deep inside me.
Suddenly we can’t help ourselves, and his long-fingered hands are all over me. “I want to cook you,” he whispers. “Whole.”
Oh my.
I’m heating from the inside out.
He reaches over me to open a colossal cabinet full of spice jars. “Tell me, how do you want it? You choose.”
“Want it?” I say, gaping. I’m a roaster. What should I want besides a little salt and pepper?
“Yes—you know, spices, method. What recipe?”
Now I finally get it. I feel like such an idiot.
He wants to flavor me.
I try to hide my disappointment. “I’ve never been seasoned,” I mumble despondently. “Or even, um,
prepped
.”
His mouth presses into a hard line and I can feel his shock and exasperation.
“Never?” he whispers.
“Not like this,” I confess.
“No one’s ever even crisped you?”
“No … and I’m not sure I’m ready for the spicy stuff.” The sprawling spice cabinet stands wide open like a kinky taunt. I’m practically pink with embarrassment.
My unconscious squawks with indignation.
Why should I be ashamed?
I may be a tipsy chicken, but I’m a free-range organic tipsy chicken with an unexpired sell-by date. I shouldn’t need spicy additives.
For the first time he appears to be at a total loss. He drums his fingers on the cutting board. Finally he seems to reach a decision.
“Into the bowl,” he commands, ripping a sheet from a packet of foil. “I don’t do vanilla. I’ve never done vanilla. But tonight we’re doing vanilla.”
SERVES 4
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, very soft
1 tablespoon brandy
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1½ teaspoons sugar
1½ teaspoons coarse kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 (3½- to 4-pound) chicken, patted dry with paper towels
1
Preheat the oven to 400°F. In a medium bowl, whisk together the butter, brandy, vanilla, sugar, ½ teaspoon salt, and ½ teaspoon black pepper until it forms a smooth, supple spread (at first it will seem to curdle, but continue beating until it submits).
2
Season the chicken, including the cavity, with the remaining 1 teaspoon salt and ½ teaspoon pepper.
3
Fill your hand with butter and gently slide your fingers beneath the skin of the breast, slathering butter on the flesh as you go. Work your way down to the thighs. Repeat until you have used all of the butter.
4
Place the chicken on a rack set over a rimmed baking sheet. Roast until the thigh juices run clear when pierced with the tip of a knife and the skin is crisp and golden, about 1 hour and 15 minutes. Let rest for 10 minutes before carving.
roasted chicken with cherries and herbs
Pullet
V
anilla’s all right once or twice, but we can’t keep that up,” he says.
My subconscious hides her eyes.
He’s way out of my league
.
A man like him could never get excited about chicken.
How could I think I might ever be what he craves? What does a man like him crave?
He fixes me suddenly with a predatory stare. “We’re going to remedy this situation right now.”
“What situation?” I ask, alarmed.
“Your situation. You’re utterly unseasoned. I’m contemplating
haute cuisine
with you, when you’ve never been paired with anything, it seems.” He cocks his head to the side.
Paired?
My inner goddess pulls her head from under her wing.
“I’m going to make dinner with you right now. We’ll begin with something sweet, soft, and juicy.”
Holy shit.
“I thought you didn’t make dinner,” I say, my heart pounding. “I thought you just cooked, um, hard.”
I hear his stomach growl deeply, the effects of which travel all the way to my tail at the base of my cavity—down
there
.
“Don’t think I’m getting all hearts and flowers. This is a step in a process. A process that I think will make a superb finish. I hope you’ll think so, too.”
I cluck low with anticipation.
His stomach growls again. “Chicken, will you please stop clucking? It’s very … distracting.”
He lays me face down and starts to drizzle my back and thighs with oil.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he says gently.
“Yes,” I beg. “Oh, yes.”
“I’m going to cook you now, Miss Hen,” he mutters as he opens the door of the oven. He slides me into the oven.
Beneath me is a bed of wet, dark, pitted cherries. The dry heat takes me into its sudden embrace, and my juices flow freely over the torn fruit.
I never thought it would feel like this. I never imagined it could be this good.
B’gaaaawk!
SERVES 4
1 (3½- to 4-pound) chicken, patted dry with paper towels
1¾ teaspoons coarse kosher salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 small bunch thyme, rosemary, or sage
1 pound pitted sweet cherries
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Lemon wedges, for serving
1
Gently rub the naked chicken all over with 1½ teaspoons of the salt and the pepper, paying attention to the bird’s cavity and every crevice. Press the herb sprigs all over the flesh, including the cavity. Place in a bowl, cover, and let marinate expectantly in the fridge for at least 1 hour or up to overnight.
2
When the mood is right, preheat the oven to 400°F. Put the cherries in the bottom of a roasting pan and toss with a tablespoon of the olive oil and the remaining ¼ teaspoon salt.
3
Put a rack on top of the cherries and lay the chicken, breast down, on the rack (remove herbs on the outside of the bird before roasting; you can leave the herbs in the cavity where they are). Drizzle the back and thighs of the chicken with a tablespoon of oil. Roast for 40 minutes, then thrust a wooden spoon into the chicken’s nether parts and flip the bird so the breasts are up. Stir the cherries. Drizzle the breasts with the remaining tablespoon of oil and continue to roast until the chicken is juicy and golden and completely done, about 40 to 50 minutes longer. Let rest for 10 minutes. Serve with lemon wedges.
Breasts
T
wo blue eyes twinkle in the light of the open Sub-Zero.
It’s not Blades, it’s some other guy with an easygoing smile and a box of frozen Tater Tots.
“What do you mean? You have a ton of grub in here,” he calls behind him. “And I’m starving!”
“It’s not grub,” I hear Blades scold. “They’re my Ingredients. And you can’t have them. They’re mine, for my work.”
The sound of his voice makes me long to see those strong hands, to feel them on my breast. How does he do that?
“Whatevs, bro. I’m not into your fancy stuff anyway. Hey, what about the chicken? We could just throw it under the boiler. Looks tasty.”
“No,” Blades says, too quickly. “You can take the Christmas ham. Don’t touch the chicken.”
Before Blades even finishes the sentence, his brother fixes his famished gaze on the rosy ham. He grins and slices off a tender morsel, which seems to please the ham very much. Then he quickly slices off another chunk, plunging it into a jar of mustard before devouring it. The ham glows excitedly, in a way I’ve rarely seen. I know what that glow means.
Oh, Ham
. She’s only just met him.
Meanwhile, Blades reaches into the fridge and gently helps me out. I thrill to the unexpected touch of his hands.
“You have far too much potential to be tossed under a broiler, Miss Hen.”
Holy crap.
Mr. Blades thinks I have potential.
“Extra-virgin,” he whispers, making it sound like forbidden nectar. “I’m going to rub you with extra-virgin olive oil, the best I have.”
Once again he turns my drumsticks to molten confit with just his voice. It’s a mind-blowing skill. He lays me flat on the cutting board and drizzles me slowly with the thick, golden liquid. Suddenly he stills his hands as a loud ping comes from the other side of the kitchen.
It’s his brother working the microwave.
“What’s in there?”
“That’s my side dish for the ham, bro.”
“What is it?”
Blades’s brother grins mischievously.
“Taters, baby.”
SERVES 4
4 bone-in, skin-on chicken breasts (about 3 pounds total), patted dry with paper towels
1 teaspoon coarse kosher salt
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 lemon, thinly sliced
4 small sprigs rosemary, broken into pieces
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, the best you have
1
Rub the chicken breasts all over with the salt and pepper. Let rest while the oven preheats to 450°F.
2
Lay the lemon slices and rosemary all over the bottom of a roasting pan and place the chicken on top, leaving space in between the breasts so they have room to crisp up. Drizzle generously with the oil.
3
Roast until the breasts are golden and done through and through, 25 to 30 minutes. Serve hot with the pan juices spooned all over the flesh.
LEARNING THE ROPES
Leaving the skin and bones on the breasts makes them cook up crisp-skinned and succulent. But if you prefer the ease of boneless, skinless chicken breasts, substitute those here and roast for 20 to 25 minutes.
roasted chicken with bacon and sweet paprika
Lardon
