Herb Roasted Chicken

I love to roast chicken.  A whole chicken.  To do it well takes time and care.  It perfumes the house as it roasts and little attention is needed once it's in the oven, a lazy day one pot meal.

Such was the case this past weekend. 

I was inspired by Jamie Oliver's cookbook, The Naked Chef that Michael gave me several years ago. Jamie Oliver cooks with rustic flare and complete abandon, following rules only to break them.

I took a 5 pound chicken, rinsed it under cold water, patted it dry, and placed it in a roasting pan. For maximun flavor, I blended butter, salt, cracked pepper, fresh parsley, and  thyme into a compound butter. Carefully separating the skin from the flesh, I smeared the butter between the two until thouroughly coated., taking the reamining butter compund and doing the same to the outside skin.  After placing a halved lemon, onion, and leek greens into the cavity, I tied the legs to ensure proper cooking and browning.

I didn't have  butcher twine, but a few blanced leek greens worked perfectly as string.  After peeling, chopping, and slicing  turnips, parsnips, carrots, leeks, onions, garlic, and celery , I scattered them in the roasting pan with the chicken and placed it in a 350 degree oven for about an hour, basting periodically with the pan juices and rotating it for even browning

When cooked to the proper temperature, I removed the chicken and vegetables to a platter, tenting them to keep warm and to rest.  Resting the chicken allows the juices to re-distrubute for moistness and tenderness.

I deglazed the roasting pan with brandy to release the fond and flavor bits from the bottom, mashed and squeezed the roasted garlic from their skins into the pan, whisked it all together with the juice of the roasted lemon, and let it reduce.  After reducing by half and off the flame, I threw in some butter pats for richness to finish.

Sliced. Plated. Sauced.

The chicken was highly seasoned and delicious.  The buttery herbs had melted into the flesh with the salt and pepper, allowing the rendered crackling brown skin a transparency to showcase them.

The roasted vegetables had caramelized and sweetened.  A shower of fresh thyme leaves over everything brightened the mellowness with a lemony finish.

As Jamie Oliver would say, "This really must be the best roast chicken. It's not fiddly, it's pukka."

Food: by Tom Yates

So, I'm writing a blog about....writing a blog?  Weird.  Actually, I'm writing to thank AceWeekly for printing one of my blog posts in last week's WRFL Cover edition.  It was an honor and a thrill.  I have been an AceWeekly fan for years and read the Reality Truck Column for years, long before it became a blog. Long before iPhones and cells and Twitter and  Facebook.

It took me a while to understand Facebook and longer to understand Twitter.  In fact,  the Lextwitterati can vouch for my wePhoning, fat-finger spelling, and my not-very-careful direct messaging.  But, I keep at it.

The same with blogging.  I blog because I have to get it out of my head.  Mise en Place for the brain.  I think about food all the time.  I like food, love food, and enjoy writing about food.  It is what it is.. 

So, I keep trudging along.

I got the text in church last week that a print appearence might happen.  It was a happy and nerve-wracking week of anticipation.  We had fun talking about it here at the house.  I didn't even tell anybody else..  Thought I might jinx it.

And then, there it was, in  Big Bold Print on Page 13.  Pretty awesome!

Thank you,  AceWeekly.

Thanks for the thrill, the nerves, and the trust.

The right pink-colored pink-roses are pretty and fragrant.  They are a tangible appreciation.

Heartfelt gratitude simply exists.

If you ever find yourself in the communion line at church, and your pocket vibrates with a phone text, you might consider checking it.  

It could very well be your faerie princess calling.

Meatless Friday: Trois

For years we were Roger's Restaurant people, denizens of the smokey bar area  known as the back room.  We had our booth, and if it was taken, we would sit at the bar drinking Old Fashioneds until it was free.  Everybody went to Roger's, whether it was to eat, drink, or talk about the horse industry.  Whenever we drove into the parking lot to park, by the time we got inside, our cocktails were sitting on the bar.  The televisions would be blaring Wheel Of Fortune or the local news, and the overheard conversations were always convivial.

Most people went on particular nights depending on the nightly specials.  Wednesdays were Fried Chicken Night, fried in a cast iron skillet with a "please be patient for the length of time" warning.  Good things took time.  The fried chicken would rival any grandmothers.  In fact, it was cooked by grandmothers in a very hot kitchen using lard or Crisco.  Flaky, crispy, and moist. We would call ahead to reserve our chicken because they always ran out.  When it was gone, it was gone. Period.

The Lamb Fries, Fried Catfish, Pan-Seared Country Ham with Red Eye Gravy, and Pan-fried Trout were some favorites among an extensive menu.

The Prime Rib was fantastic, swimming in a salty reduced au jus, so dark it would almost stain the tender meat. 

They had Soup Beans with Corn Cakes, laden with ham hock and  tear-inducing chopped onions.  Thay also had a wonderful Wilted Spinach Salad, broken down with a  hot bacon vinaigrette that was so sugary sweet, it made your teeth ache....in a marvelous way.  I would start eating it with a fork and finish it with a spoon, capturing every drop.

Then there were Fridays.  Friday night was Swiss Steak & Salmon Croquettes night.  We always went for the salmon croquettes.  Very old school. Triangular orbs of salmon, deep fried, plated, and topped with a thick mildly-sweet velvety egg sauce.  A squeeze of lemon would perk it up and cut through the richness of the sauce, a perfect pairing.  Corncakes with butter pats, a potato of some kind, and buttered peas rounded it out.  A plate of heaven!

We probably would still be going to Roger's had it not closed in 2004  after 81 years of making people happy and welcome.

Friday night can still be Salmon Croquettes night, especially during Lent with Meatless Fridays.  Last night, we took a trip down memory lane with them.  Croquettes are something I don't make.  Michael is the croquette maker in this house, and always has been.  He does them perfectly.  Very basic.  Very old school. Very good.

Salmon, eggs, mayonaise, breadcrumbs, and seasonings are mixed and  patted out, pan-sauteed until golden brown, and topped with a sauce. He has been tinkering with ingredients as of late.  To the standards he'll sometimes add chopped peppers, green onions, or fresh lemon juice.  Any new addition always bumps up the flavor and taste.

.

I usually make the sauce, depending on mood and on-hand ingrediants.  I never could master the Roger's egg sauce and eventually stopped trying.  Last night, I made a sour orange hollandaise with minced red peppers and tomato concasse.

The croquettes very wonderful, crisp brown with a bite to them.  The tart buttery hollandaise was a good partner. We served them with creamed peas and twice-baked potatoes. The textures and flavors enhanced and complimented each other. 

Bright. Sweet. Spicy. Buttery. Crunchy. Soft. Creamy.

We didn't even miss the meat.  We did miss Vanna White.

A Simple Salad

I love the peppery bitter undertones of arugula and radicchio lettuce leaves.  I have brasied radicchio and tossed arugula with warm pasta to wilt, but I prefer them in a salad where their true essence shines.

I combined them last night to make a very simple salad.

In a mixing bowl, I spooned a dollop of Edmond Fallot Green Peppercorn Dijon Mustard, two tablespoons of sherry vinegar, six tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil, sea salt, Tellicherry cracked pepper, and whisked everything together to emulsify into a vinaigrette.

I feathered the arugula and radicchio leaves into the bowl on top of the dressing and placed it in the refrigerator to chill.

At service time, I tossed the lettuce leaves with the vinaigrette from the bottom of the bowl and plated it.

Crisp.  Clean.

It was tart from the dijon and sherry vinegar, full-bodied from the extra virgin oive oil, and briny from the dijon soaked green peppercorns.

The buttery bitter radicchio and arugula lettuce leaves were assertive enough to stand up to the dressing.  Just barely dressed, clinging to the leaves, and unadorned.

Very simple.

I did serve it with  Thomas Keller's Bouchon inspired  French Onion Soup.  Soup a L'Oignon Gratinee.

That's another story.

Applewood Smoked Bacon-Wrapped Stuffed Green Peppers & Johnnycakes

Hollowed-out, deseeded green peppers, stuffed with ground veal, beef, pork, eggs, regginao, and fresh bread crumbs.

Wrapped in Applewood smoked bacon.

Johnnycake batter.  Stoneground cornmeal, sugar, salt, and boiling water.

Griddled until crispy brown.

I topped the peppers with a tomato sauce red wine vinegar mixture, baked them until tender, draped them with sharp cheddar cheese until  melted, and after a cooling rest, ladled a tomato sour cream gravy over the molten melted cheese. Served over steamed white rice with griddled Johnnycakes soaked in butter and pure maple syrup.

This sounded like the most unlikely combination.  Hungarian inspired stuffed green peppers with Yankee inspired Johnnycakes.  It totally worked.

 Johnnycakes are the kindred spirit to the southern version of hot-water corn cakes.  Same method.  The boiling water helps them puff on the griddle.  After adding boiling water, let the batter rest for 10 minutes before cooking 6 minutes per side until golden.

The applewood smoked bacon surrounding the stuffed peppers melted into the meat mixture, disappearing and acting as caul fat.  Flavor without texture.  Brilliant!

The stuffed peppers bursted with flavor as the acidic velvety tomato sour cream gravy punched through the soft rich  meat and cheese. The butter-laden maple syrup soaked johnnycakes were the perfect side-by-side.  They stood on their own, but the sweetness balanced out the richness and tomato-ness of the peppers.  In fact, when the butter syrup sauce and tomato sauce combined as they oozed across the plate into each other,  tomato jam created itself. 

It granted my sweet & savory taste wish.

                                                                                                                

Scallop Scampi

I love making pasta.  I love angel hair pasta, but I can't make it. It's just too thin for my pasta roller/cutter.  So, I buy really good quality angel hair pasta.

I had some very tiny bay scallops that I thought would work great with the delicate mouthfeel of the angel hair pasta.  What I came up with was not so much a recipe, but a method and is very similar to Spaghetti alle Vongole or Spaghetti With White Clam Sauce.

The dish came  together quickly once the pasta was cooked, so mise en place' was  helpful, if not crucial.  I had everything prepped and ready to go, which left my mind free to think about the actual cooking.

The water for the pasta was heavily salted.  It tasted "of the sea.".  Very important for well seasoned and great tasting pasta.  Boiled, set aside, and about a cup of  the pasta water reserved for the sauce.

In a very hot pan, I seared the scallops quickly and then removed them to the side.  I drizzled olive oil around the pan to cover and added the finely chopped onion, celery, garlic, and julienned red bell pepper, with a sprinkling of sea salt.  I let those saute for a few minutes to color and soften before deglazing the pan with a dry white wine, letting it reduce by half,  picking up the flavor bits from the bottom of the pan.  I added  a cup of seafood stock and a ladle of the pasta cooking water and let it simmer until  thickened and reduced.  The salty starchy pasta water helped  thicken  and season the sauce.  I returned the scallops to the pan, turned off the flame, threw in a few pats of butter, swirling it to melt into a glossy shimmering sauce.

Afrer tossing the angel hair pasta into the pan to combine, I showered it with fresh parsley and served it in large pasta bowls with lemon wedges and garlic bread to sop. 

So delicate.  So light.  The tiny threads of  pasta wrapped around the equally tiny scallops, capturing them like prey.  The sweetness of the onions mellowed the sharpness of the garlic, the celery added an al dente bite and crispness, and the julienned red peppers mimicked the strands of pasta with  a savory sweet earthiness.  The final  parsley shower added a grassy floral freshness.

The garlicky stock, wine, and butter-infused sauce was a perfect bath for bread soaking and sopping.

The Day I Learned To Ski

I was a kid when we lived in Vienna, Austria.  It was during the Frau Olga years when the food was spectacular and the wine flowed freely.  For some reason, I was allowed a glass of red wine with dinner every night unless I requested Fanta.

At the time, my father was dating a stewardess (that's what they were called back then), named Suzi who had a very rich father.  One particular weekend, he invited Suzi,  my father, my brother, Frau Olga, and me to his chalet  in the Austrian Alps for a weekend of eating and skiing.  I knew how to eat. I didn't know how to ski.

At the top of a very big mountain, everyone took turns teaching me how to ski. How to turn.  How to stop.  How to ride the lift.  Even now, I have a short attention span.  Back then I had NO attention span.  So, thinking I had mastered the art and sport of skiing, they placed a schilling in my mitten, for the lift, and told me to go down a few yards, then turn and stop.  A quick shove to my back to get me started, and off I went.
I didn't know how to turn, much less how to stop.  Down the mountain I flew screaming at the top of my lungs.  I was avoiding trees and bumps and most everything until I slammed into some people taking a "ski break" toward the bottom of the mountain.  Down we all went.  No one was hurt.  I was too horrified to even be embarrassed.  Unfortunately, I lost my schilling in the snow and had no way to get back to the top where all my people were.  I saw people side-stepping their way back up, but my skis were teeny weeny and it would have taken an entire day, so I sat in the snow and waited.

Eventually my people, my caretakers, my ski-instructors came down from the mountain top to find me.  They were laughing and joking about what I good job I had done "skiing" down the grown-up mountain.

I wanted to hide.  I wanted my schilling back.

Thankfully, that was our day of skiing.  Time to stop, get changed and go for lunch.  That I could do.

The place they chose for lunch wasn't a restaurant, really.  It was more of a butcher shop with tables.  Food is food when you're cold and tired.  There was beer for them and hot chocolate for me.  We sat at a table with a big glass window overlooking another room.  A white room.  Inside the room was a gigantic skinned and be-headed cow, tied and quartered from wall to wall, suspended in mid air.  I was fascinated, at first.
A big man dressed in white walked into the room, took a very large knife, and split the cow from top to bottom, letting all of the inside stuff spill onto the concrete floor.  A big pile of bloody stuff.  It was quickly hosed down into a drain The cow was taken down and removed  Everything went back to normal.

Normal.

I didn't say a word.  I didn't eat.  I sipped on my hot chocolate, staring into the white room.

That was the day I learned to ski.  I haven't tried it since.

Not even with the enticement of great food as a reward.