F. Fowler - Fifty Shades of Chicken

LEARNING THE ROPES

Harissa is an intense chile sauce from Northern Africa. It’s spicy, searing hot. If you can’t find it, substitute the hottest hot sauce you can get.

“Oh, Chicken, did you just cluck at me?”

Crap.

“No,” I squawk hoarsely.

“I believe you did. Yes, you did. You remember what I said I’d do to you if you clucked?”

Aw, jeez. “Yes.” I pause before I add, “Yes, Chef.”

“My word is my bond,” he crows. “I’m going to spank you. And then I will cook you, very hot and hard.”

I know what his hard cooking is like.

“I’m not sure I can take any more quite yet,” I whine.

“Stamina, Miss Hen,” he says brightly.

My inner goddess has donned a tiny cheerleader’s uniform and starts to chant.

Give me a B!

Whack.

Give me an L! Give me an A!

Whack whack.

Give me a D! E! S!

Whack whack whack.

What does that spell?

Control-freak poultry-beater, that’s what it spells. But I don’t fancy another swat, so I manage to keep the thought to myself for once.

He roasts me gently until I reach sweet doneness.

“You are a most beautiful sight,” he says, pulling me out of the Wolf. “And your smell is intoxicating.”

Afterward, everywhere he spanked me is stinging and warm. The experience was humiliating and mustardy and unbelievably hot. I definitely don’t want him to do that to me again. But now that it’s over I have this warm, safe, golden brown afterglow. I feel contented, and totally confused.

I must remember to cluck at him more often.

roasted chicken with mustard, fresh basil, and garlic

SERVES 4

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

1 teaspoon coarse kosher salt, plus more to taste

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons Dijon mustard

2 teaspoons minced fresh basil

2 garlic cloves, minced

3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

1 Rub the chicken all over, including the cavity, with the salt and pepper.

2 In a small bowl, stir together the mustard, basil, and garlic and slap it hard onto the bird everywhere you just rubbed the salt and pepper. Refrigerate overnight or for at least 1 hour so it can recover.

3 Preheat the oven to 400°F. Place a rack in a roasting pan.

4 Carefully lay the bird on the rack, breast side down. Drizzle with 1 tablespoon of the oil. Roast for 30 minutes. Thrust a wooden spoon into the chicken cavity and flip the bird over so the breasts are up; drizzle with the remaining oil. Continue to roast until the bird is golden brown and quite done, about 30 to 40 minutes longer. Enjoy.

LEARNING THE ROPES

If you’ve got a fridge full of epicurean mustards at the ready (brandy, cognac, horseradish, honey, green peppercorn, etc.), feel free to substitute for the Dijon. Treat your bird right and she’ll reward you crisply.

Fry?” We’re going to fry?

“Yes, and fast. The Wolf does 16,000 BTUs in a single burner.”

Suddenly a thousand butterflies are moshing in my belly. Holy shit, what kind of caper is he planning this time? I’m not sure I’m prepared for this.

“I’ll prepare you, darling. Don’t worry,” he says dryly. He must be telepathic. It’s uncanny.

But am I a fryer? Maybe I come across that way, but I’ve always thought of myself as more of a roaster, a low-heat bird. No way do I have legs plump enough for batter and hot oil.

“Do you like to fry?” I ask a little timidly.

“It requires intense preparation and control. How could I not?”

He flicks on the Wolf with a roar and sets a heavy Dutch oven on top. It’s a beast of a pot—big, solid, enameled flame-red. He pops in a thermometer, and its bright red tongue shoots up in sync with my soaring desire. Oh, I’m prepped, all right.

Blades is already sifting flour. His hands expertly shake a perfect bed of powder onto the plate. He’s just so competent.

“On the plate,” he commands, and rolls me around in the flour like a pro.

Hot damn. I’m nearly cooked from just the heat of his fingertips. My inner goddess is swooning in her red velvet coop. She crows with ecstasy when, with a sudden shake, he de-flours me.

With a loud whoosh of oil I’m frying. I’m really frying. Is there anything this aproned Adonis can’t do? I have a vision of myself as Icarus, wings singeing as he nears the sun.

But my wings aren’t burned—they’re flaky and crisp and delicious.

crispy fried chicken

SERVES 4 TO 6

1½ teaspoons coarse kosher salt

½ teaspoon cayenne pepper

½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1 (3½- to 4-pound) chicken, cut into 10 pieces and patted dry with paper towels

Peanut oil, lard, or chicken fat, for frying

2 eggs

¼ cup buttermilk

1½ cups all-purpose flour

¼ teaspoon baking powder

1 Rub the salt, cayenne pepper, and black pepper all over the chicken parts and let sit in the refrigerator for as long as possible, from 20 minutes to 24 hours.

2 Fill a large Dutch oven with 3 inches of fat and heat it to 375°F. In a medium bowl, whisk together the eggs with the buttermilk. Whisk together the flour and baking powder and place in a shallow dish.

3 Dip the chicken pieces first into the egg and buttermilk mixture and then into the flour mixture, shaking off any excess. Add 4 pieces of the chicken to the pan and fry, covered, for 6 minutes. Uncover, turn the chicken, and continue to cook until golden brown and crisp on the outside and just cooked through, about 7 minutes longer for dark meat and 5 minutes for white meat. Drain on a rack before serving. Repeat with the remaining chicken pieces.

You have the most beautiful skin, pale and not one feather. I want to crisp every single inch of it.”

“You can crisp me any time,” I purr.

“How about a little honey and spice?” he asks suggestively.

I can’t help but cluck derisively. His spice thing is out of control. I know I’m pushing it, as my inner goddess pokes her head out of her golden henhouse.

“You didn’t just cluck, did you?”

“Oh no,” I answer quickly.

“I’m going to drizzle this on you,” he says.

“You really know how to warm a chick up.” I pause before adding, “Chef.”

His eyes flash with irritation. “You have a smart mouth, for someone without a head,” he whispers. “I may have to do something about that.”

My inner goddess high-fives me with a feathered wing. I’ve gotten under his skin. Holy crap.

crisp baked chicken with honey mustard and lime

SERVES 4

2 tablespoons cream

2 tablespoons honey mustard