F. Fowler - Fifty Shades of Chicken

He sets his mouth in a hard line for a moment, then picks me up in his hand. He adjusts my wrapper and helps me back into the Sub-Zero.

“Very well, Miss Hen. Until we meet again.”

I feel a strange charge come through his fingertips before he sets me down. Must be static electricity. I believe I’ll never live down the “vegetarian” question. But I have a thrilling, dark intuition that those hands aren’t done with me.

The 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.”

roast chicken with brandy-vanilla butter

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.

“Vanilla’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!

roasted chicken with cherries and herbs

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.