F. Fowler - Fifty Shades of Chicken

1 teaspoon dried oregano

1¾ teaspoons coarse kosher salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 (3½- to 4-pound) whole chicken, patted dry with paper towels

HEARTS AND FLOWERS SALSA

4 oranges, peeled and diced

2 avocados, peeled, pitted, and diced

1 (7.8-ounce) can hearts of palm, drained and chopped

¼ cup chopped red onion

2 jalapeño peppers, seeded and finely chopped

2 teaspoons freshly squeezed lime juice

Coarse kosher salt

Edible flowers, for garnish

1 In a bowl, whisk together the orange and lime zests and juices, garlic, oregano, ¾ teaspoon salt, and ½ teaspoon pepper. Whisk in the oil.

2 Season the cavity of the chicken with the remaining 1 teaspoon salt and ½ teaspoon pepper. Place the chicken in a large bowl. Pour the marinade over the chicken and turn it slowly, until it is completely bathed in marinade. Chill it, covered, for 1 hour.

3 Preheat the oven to 400°F. Place the chicken, breast side up, in a large roasting pan. Roast until the juices run clear when a sharp knife is thrust into the deepest part of the thigh, about 1 hour to 1 hour and 15 minutes. Let the chicken rest for 10 minutes.

4 While the chicken rests, prepare the salsa. In a bowl, fold together the oranges, avocados, hearts of palm, onion, jalapeños, lime juice, and a large pinch of salt.

5 Carve the chicken into pieces and arrange on a large platter. Spoon the salsa over the chicken and strew the flower blossoms over the plate.

I could get used to this china platter. And Shifty seems to enjoy the Cristal. We can afford it now that our cookbook is out. It’s become bigger than we ever dreamed, and ebook sales are skyrocketing. We still visit the toy drawer, but Blades has found ways to satisfy himself without it.

Tonight it’s a little French number. He massages butter under my skin, mixed with herbs that smell of the South of France. Then he ties me up and roasts me gently and completely. The butter is so silky and wet. It brings out the essential me, without the fancy dressings and luxurious sauces.

He sighs. “I just love chicken.”

“I love you too, Chef. Always.”

Sometimes a girl just likes to be treated like a chicken.

classic roast chicken with herb butter

SERVES

3 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened

2 teaspoons herbes de Provence

1 (3½- to 4-pound) whole chicken

1½ teaspoons kosher salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 small bunch fresh thyme

4 smashed and peeled garlic cloves

1 Preheat the oven to 400°F. In a small bowl, mash together the butter and herbes de Provence. Pat the chicken completely dry with paper towels so that the butter will slide easily along its skin. Massage the chicken inside and out with salt and pepper. Thrust the thyme and garlic deep into the cavity of the chicken.

2 Fill your hand with herb butter and gently slide your fingers beneath the skin of the breast, slathering butter on the flesh. Work your way down to the thighs. Rub additional butter all over the surface of the skin.

3 Tightly truss the chicken according to the instructions. The tighter you truss her, the juicier she will be.

4 Place the chicken on a rack set over a rimmed baking sheet. Roast until the thigh juices run clear and the skin is golden, 1 hour to 1 hour and 15 minutes. Cover with foil and let rest 20 minutes before carving.

What the fuck was I thinking? The world isn’t ready for full-on radish cuisine. The radish granita was a hit, but the radish-tini is just too far ahead of its time. Well, one day it will be recognized as a classic. Until then, I’d better get my shit together for the cookbook proposal I’m supposed to write.

As I open the fridge I’m nearly bowled over as a pink cannonball plunges from the top shelf and hits the floor with a dull splat. I roll my eyes and suppress my irritation at this needless disruption in my kitchen.

What’s a chicken doing in my refrigerator anyway? Mrs. Smith is getting careless in her housekeeping. I’ll have to talk to her about following my ingredients lists more precisely. Must I write everything out in capital letters?

I pick up the fallen bird, and push the giblets bag back into her cavity. What a mess. But fuck, look at that skin. It’s perfect. Nearly as pink as the radish. Yes, I must confess, she is an alluring little piece. There might be something I could do with this bird. I imagine what the bite of my new oven would do to that skin—crisp it up beautifully, I suspect. Oh man. Get a grip, Chef. You’ve got work to do.

I start prepping out some herbs, but the blush on that chicken keeps drawing my eye, almost as if it were pulsing. Nobody’s making great art with chicken, but it might be fun to play around. Which knife, I wonder? The santoku would certainly bring her to heel. But the vintage carbon-steel French chef’s knife would be more pleasurable. Or the steely discipline of the Wüsthof? That rack truly holds a knife for my every mood.

“Yes, quite a collection,” I say aloud. It suddenly occurs to me that this beautiful chicken is like a virgin block of marble, just waiting for a sculptor’s tools to elevate it above the everyday. This bird’s delicious, glowing shade of pink seems to want to prove to me that a real artist, one with finesse, technique, and a good knife, could make a transcendent chicken.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I mumble to myself, impressed by my own idea. I count my knives to calm myself. “Fifty blades, to be precise. This kitchen is my domain. I need to have complete control when I prep.”

I realize I’ve been talking to myself, so I may as well talk to the chicken. I remember Julia used to do that on her show. My television babysitter as a child. I remember the constant smell of Tater Tots. Fucking hell.

I don’t want to repeat the whole radish experience. Am I ready to take on a new Ingredient, something as humdrum as chicken? How do you finesse chicken? I groan inwardly at all the possibilities this presents. Well, getting there is going to be half the fun.

“It’s all about finesse, Miss Hen.” Christ, I’m lecturing a fucking chicken. “I have enormous respect for food. To derive deep satisfaction from the mundane: tournéing a radish, cutting a potato, portioning a syllabub. These form the foundation of what I do.”

A syllabub ? I might be losing my marbles. But the chicken draws me onward with her ravishing skin. Everything about this humble, exquisite bird points to how the ordinary can be raised to the extraordinary. Through the disheveled plastic I can make out the curve of her perfect breast.

And there you have it. I have to come up with fifty recipes by next month, I’m talking to a chicken, and I have a hard-on.