F. Fowler - Fifty Shades of Chicken

“You’re so sweet, so succulent, so good,” he says in a low voice.

My inner goddess writhes in her velvet coop, licking her own wings and breast as if insatiable. She’s making a real meal of herself.

“Yes, oh, yes,” I breathe. I want him to finish me, every last bite. I’m his and only his. Engulf me, devour me, consume me.

He stills and lays my thigh back down on the plate. He looks troubled.

“Too good,” he sighs. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and gives a small shake of his head as if in answer to an invisible waiter.

“Chicken, I’m not the right man for you. You’re perfect as you are. My singular tastes would only lead you astray. You should stay well clear of me.”

What? Where is this coming from?

“You deserve hearts and flowers, and I can’t give you that. I’m sorry. I’m going to set the fork down and let you go now.” He gently pushes the plate away.

I’m devastated and heartbroken. He doesn’t crave me. He’s really not hungry for me . Somehow I have royally fouled up dinner.

My inner goddess doesn’t seem to notice at first, overcome as she is by her own succulence. Then she looks up from her nibbling to search the emptiness for something to go with it. But there’s nothing.

She calls sadly, Taters, baby?

baked chicken with apricot jam, sage, and lemon zest

SERVES 4

1 (3½- to 4-pound) chicken, cut into 8 pieces, patted dry with paper towels

1¼ teaspoons coarse kosher salt

¾ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

5 sprigs fresh sage

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 lemon

⅓ cup apricot jam, large chunks cut up

1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

1 large garlic clove, minced

1 In a large bowl, gently massage the chicken limbs and breasts with salt and pepper. Add the sage and a tablespoon of the oil and toss well. Let marinate in the fridge until the chicken is begging you for it, about 6 hours or overnight.

2 Preheat the oven 400°F. Grate the zest from the lemon, then squeeze the juice. Add the zest and juice to a small bowl and mix in the jam, Worcestershire sauce, and garlic.

3 Pluck out the sage from the chicken and discard. Rub the sticky jam all over the chicken parts, then lay them down in a 9 × 13-inch baking dish, leaving plenty of breathing room in between each succulent morsel. Bake for 45 to 55 minutes, until the skin is alluringly golden and the juices run clear when pricked. Serve hot and be prepared to burn your fingers.

LEARNING THE ROPES

If your jam tastes lean toward other juicy fruits, feel free to substitute for the apricot. Ginger preserves will spice it up, marmalade will tart it up, and raspberry will make it blush bright red.

The ham is giddy with curiosity when I return to the fridge, but her smile vanishes when she sees that I’m in pieces.

“Oh, no—what’s that bastard done to you?”

Crap, not now. Not another grilling from the baked ham.

“Nothing… everything’s fine,” I chirp, but she can always see right through me.

“You’ve really fallen hard for this guy, haven’t you?”

Man, if she only knew. The fact is I see less and less of the ham, as Blade’s brother keeps slicing off naughty little bits each night. There’s even a bite mark near her rump. She can’t repress a goofy, glazed smile.

“If he’s an asshole who’s just going to burn you, then dump him. But I can tell he likes you by the way he stares at you.”

“He has a funny way of showing it.”

“Oh, he’s into you. But he’d better watch himself,” she threatens.

“Please, I’m fine,” I lie.

“You need rest,” she says warmly. “Put this on. I was going to use it myself, but you need it worse than I do.” There’s a bowl of marinade next to her.

The ham is an angel. I crawl into the bowl and let myself sink into the liquid. It’s bracing and aromatic. It doesn’t make me forget my troubles, but somehow it’s perfect. I’ve been seduced by a shifty mystery man, who then dumps me for no obvious reason.

I brood in the luscious marinade. Some jerks are nicer than others.

jerk chicken with spices, rum, chiles, and lime

SERVES 4

1 teaspoon whole allspice

4 whole cloves

1 cinnamon stick

1 cup chopped scallions, white and green parts

¼ cup soy sauce

1 lime, zested and juiced

2 Scotch bonnet or serrano chile peppers, seeded and minced

2 tablespoons dark rum

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon dried thyme

1 tablespoon light brown sugar

2 teaspoons kosher salt

2 fat garlic cloves, chopped

1 tablespoon grated peeled fresh gingerroot

½ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

1 (3½- to 4-pound) chicken, cut into 8 pieces and patted dry with a paper towel

1 In a small dry skillet over medium heat, place the allspice, cloves, and cinnamon. Toast the spices, stirring constantly, until fragrant, 2 to 3 minutes. Transfer the spices to a plate, let cool, then finely grind them in a spice grinder.

2 In a food processor or blender, combine the ground spices, scallions, soy sauce, lime juice and zest, chiles, rum, oil, thyme, brown sugar, salt, garlic, gingerroot, and nutmeg, and process until smooth. Taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary.

3 In a large dish, arrange the chicken in a single layer and pour the marinade over it, tossing to coat. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and marinate in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours, preferably overnight; the longer you delay gratification, the spicier it will be.

4 Preheat the oven to 450°F. Arrange the chicken parts in a single layer on a baking pan lined with foil and heavily oiled. Spoon the excess marinade on top. Bake until the chicken is golden, appetizing, and cooked through, 35 to 45 minutes. Eat while hot, hot, hot.

He’s back. Yesterday he sent me some parsley and a bouquet garni . I can’t keep up with his mood shifts, but I’m a sucker for aromatics.

Today he’s going to extra lengths to soften me up. He’s got me in a hot soak with more aromatics, plus something mysteriously piquant. It was impossible to stay mad at him when he brought me the beer.

“I just couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he says. “There’s something about you, Miss Hen. I don’t know what it is. But I find I must have you.”

I am dumbstruck by his hungry expression. Wow… to be desired by this great, golden god of a cook.

“Now, if we’re going to do this, we need to talk about recipes,” he says sharply. Uh-oh, here it comes. I steel myself for bad news, and my subconscious does a duck-and-cover.

“First, as my Ingredient, you will submit entirely to my control. I will cook you any time, any way I want—as the mood strikes me.”

Jeez. Moods like his could keep a girl hopping.

“What does that mean, your ‘Ingredient’?” I ask.

“It means that for the foreseeable future I will cook you, and only you.”