F. Fowler - Fifty Shades of Chicken

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.

Two 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.”

roasted bone-in breast with olive oil, lemon, and rosemary

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.

“What kind of stove is this?” I ask.

“It’s a Wolf LP dual-fuel with six dual brass burners and an infrared griddle,” he says offhandedly.

Wow. Boys and their toys. He flicks a knob and an outsize burner ignites with a roar of flame. A heady aroma wafts from a gleaming skillet he’s rested carefully on top of it. Is that bacon?

I’ve been placed precariously on the countertop while Blades does his mise en place . Once again I feel myself teetering on the edge. The edge of desire, the edge of despair— the edge of the counter . Crap.

It all happens in a flash. One minute I’m falling, the next I’m in his arms and he’s clasping me tightly to his chest. He smells of bacon and imported onions. It’s intoxicating.

He stares down at me with a hungry look. I’m so close I can feel the rumbling deep in his taut belly. Slowly he peels me from my wrapper. The plastic comes away, exposing my naked flesh.

Heat me, heat me, I silently implore, but I can’t do more than cluck softly.

“What is it about falling poultry?” he mutters. He carries me in his arms to the sink. “I want to rinse you,” he says. “Now.” A strong, graceful hand cradles me under the cascading tap water while the other caresses me smoothly over the sink. His manicured fingers move in agonizingly slow arcs across my breast and the crease of my thigh. Holy cow. What is he doing to me? There’s a burning smell, and in my delirium I wonder if I’m already cooked.

A timer goes off and smoke is rising from the Wolf.

“Ignore it,” he breathes as he pats my legs dry. “I have a much better use for bacon.”

roasted chicken with bacon and sweet paprika

SERVES 4

1 orange

1 tablespoon sweet paprika

1½ teaspoons coarse kosher salt

1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 teaspoon extra-virgin olive oil

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

4 ounces bacon (about 4 strips)

1 Preheat the oven to 400°F. Finely grate the zest of the orange into a bowl. Stir in the paprika, salt, and pepper.

2 Massage the oil all over the skin of the chicken. Sprinkle some of the paprika mixture into the cavity; massage the remaining mixture all over the bird (you’ll know you’ve done a good job if your hand begins to redden). Cut the orange into quarters and thrust the fruit deep into the cavity of the bird.

3 Move the chicken to a rack set over a roasting pan. Roast for 45 minutes, basting with any pan juices occasionally. Crisscross the bacon over the breasts. Continue to roast until the chicken is cooked through and the bacon is crisp, about 20 minutes longer. Let rest 10 minutes before carving.

He sits down at the table, and jeez, does he look hot. He pulls off his white apron and runs a hand through that amazing just-cooked hair. I think I could faint before he even takes a bite.

I’m in warm pieces all over the plate. My own juices mingle with the sticky sweet jam he’s spread all over me. My skin feels melting and soft. He ignores the fine silver flatware and picks up a thigh with both hands. Wow. He slowly closes his mouth around my thigh, causing clear, hot juice to drip over his delectable lower lip.