Roast Chicken, part II

Posted on October 14, 2009 by Chelsea

With the falling temperatures and rising rains of autumn comes another unfortunate event. Well, it’s unfortunate in the sense that it interrupts me from my otherwise regularly schedule internet time. So that means it’s unfortunate for the regular updating of this blog, because I stop posting.

School.

We’re in the middle of the third week now, and this is the first time I’ve really had the chance to sit down and get back to the story. It’s all being sitting on the back burner up until now. Which is oddly appropriate, given our current topic.

You’ll remember that when last we met, my first roast chicken had been liberated of meat. The carcass itself I lowered into my gigantic gleaming aluminum pasta pot. I added roughly chopped red onion chunks and quartered carrots. Then I tossed in a liberal mix of herbs: thyme, sage, parsley, rosemary, dill, two or three bay leaves, and a small cupped handful of black peppercorns. I finished by cracking a head of garlic and strewing several cloves, paper wrapped still, around the carcass. I added probably twelve cups of water, and lidded the whole pot up to simmer for two and a half hours.

When I strained out the bones and wasted vegetables, I was able to pour ten cups of rich, buttery-colored stock into my largest Tupperware. At Ina Garten’s helpful suggestion courtesy of the Food Network website, I stowed the container in the fridge overnight, and was rewarded the next morning by a thick layer of fat across the top of the broth, which I scooped off before portioning out the golden liquid into smaller amounts in freezable containers. Though I will not use it for everyday applications that only call for a cup or half a cup of broth, now I will have homemade chicken broth for clear soups and risottos. You can bet that if this roast chicken obsession continues, I will need to start saving every lidded container that goes through my kitchen. Scrubbed and labeled, yogurt and cottage cheese containers alike will be homes to ice-crystalled, rock hard pints of lovingly simmered stock. C’mon, winter cold, I dare you to take on my broth base.

Roast Chicken, part I

Posted on September 21, 2009 by Chelsea

Last night I faced another one of my food anxieties and bravely roasted a whole chicken. This doesn’t sound like much, but for a girl who is capable of producing every side dish in a Thanksgiving feast but is afraid of the turkey, it was kind of a big deal for me. First, I did my research. And my research, I mean I asked around for suggestions on Facebook. I got two recommendations, both from clever friends. A. told me to stuff an herb and garlic mixture under the skin and into the cavity. J. told me not to skimp on the rosemary. I heeded their words. At about 4 o’clock yesterday afternoon, I traipsed out to the garden in the misting spurts of drizzle and picked a big handful of parsley, pineapple sage, silver thyme, and several large twigs of the tiny rosemary bush I am so proud of.*

Back in the kitchen, I chopped the herbs roughly, threw them into a container with four cloves of garlic, a few tablespoons of butter, salt, pepper, and a splash of olive oil, before attacking the whole mixture with my immersion blender. What resulted looked and tasted like the best spread for garlic bread there has ever been.

The next part was probably the most fun, though it could also be construed as the most icky, depending on how you feel about raw chicken. To get the best flavors going, I carefully loosened the skin of the chicken from the meat by jamming my fingers in between them and breaking through the thin layer that attaches the skin to the muscles. When I had loosened quite a bit of the skin on the chicken’s back (I have adopted my mom’s suggestion to roast poultry breast-side down, so the white meat doesn’t dry out as much), I shoved several fingerfuls of my herb butter mixture underneath the chicken’s skin, massaging the flavor into the meat. The mixture was visible from the outside, making the chicken look like it had grown green spots. It was like some strange miniature speckled pterodactyl.

With the tiny bit of leftover butter mixture, I coated the inside of the cavity before placing my 4-pounder in the oven at 350F. Almost exactly 90 minutes later, it was done. I pulled it out and admired the crisp, brown skin for a few moments before quickly tenting it with aluminum foil to stay warm while I made our side dishes.

I steamed a bunch of asparagus to provide some greens, and then, with reverence, sliced up our first gigantic Brandywine tomato for caprese salad. We wanted to be sure and put this first huge beautiful heirloom to good use, since our bush is only promising a few choice specimens, and with the weather as schizophrenic as it usually is at this time of year, we may not get many more. Caprese seemed noble enough. I layered the thick, meaty slices of tomato with fresh mozzarella and just-picked basil, then sprinkled the whole thing with salt and pepper before giving it a healthy drizzle of olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

Gorgeous, no? Who needs lettuce?

We dug in. The caprese was marvelous; the acidic sweetness of the tomato juice mingled with the balsamic vinegar into a beautiful sweet-tangy jus that soaked into the fresh mozzarella, which had enough creaminess to stand up to the firm, meaty flesh of the tomato slices. It was perfect. And then it was gone.

The chicken was delicious as well. It was moist and savory, and the herbs both added some welcome flavors and made it smell really enticing. I forced myself not to eat more than a bite or two of the skin, which was crispy and golden and marvelous. It’s a shame that fat tastes so wonderful, because it is always difficult for me to avoid it. I love that marbling in any cut of meat, and I’m a fiend for the thigh and leg on poultry both because it is moister meat, but also because the skin often gets left on the leg, and I get to chew on some of it as a special treat.

Dinner was delectable, but almost more exciting than dinner was the fate of the leftovers. There was plenty of meat left over after we were finished; even at our hungriest, I doubt that N. and I could polish off a 4 pound chicken with just the two of us, so I picked the carcass pretty thoroughly and will use the meat again soon. As for the carcass, all I can tell you is to stay tuned for “Roast Chicken, part II.”

*Early this spring, I picked a sprig of rosemary from a bush in the neighborhood that was leaning out over the sidewalk. I put it in a vase (read: cleaned and dried empty artichoke hearts jar) and waited. It took about three weeks, but it sprouted roots and I, holding my breath, planted it in a small pot outside. It flourished. It is still pretty small, probably because I keep using its fragrant, pine-scented leaves to cook with, but next spring I will re-pot it to really let it go wild.

Plumbing the Depths of the Sesame Crusted Sublime

Posted on April 28, 2009 by Chelsea

A week or so ago, when we had a span of delightful warm weather, a number of truly wonderful things happened. My wonderful friend S. drove us to Lowe’s where we bought lumber to create garden plots, my wonderful husband N. built us said garden plots, and I spent about two wonderful hours too long in the early Spring sun getting my neck, chest, and arms burned while I introduced young plants to their new homes. The upshot of these two glorious afternoons was the creation of a vegetable and herb garden. The backlash was the toasted skin.

Oddly inspired by the fire burning my skin from within, and not wanting anything involving the oven for dinner, I set about morphing together two recipes: my mom’s friend Jen’s Chinese Chicken Salad with a really delicious seared ahi salad I had at Henry’s 12^th Street Tavern (http://henrystavern.com/index.php) for my 1 year wedding anniversary.

Taking my own toasting into account, I dredged a beautiful hunk of sushi grade ahi in sesame seeds. I seared it lightly on all sides so that the sesame seeds were nutty smelling and golden on the outside and the tuna had layers of doneness culminating in a glorious rare center. I mounded up a mixture of savoy cabbage, chives, and (I know, so gauche but so good) crumbled ramen noodles in our salad bowls, and topped it with thin slices of tuna, mango, and avocado, then crowned the whole thing with some deep fried won ton strips.

It was perfect. The tangy acidity of the mango cut through the buttery richness of the avocado and the achingly, meltingly perfect tuna center. The perfect bite was all three heavy hitters on one forkful, followed by a crunchy bite of won ton to change up the texture and cleanse the palate. I won’t lie; the cabbage salad was really just there for looks. And to pretend we were getting our full serving of vegetables. We really just wanted this tropical take on sashimi. Now, with my sunburn a fading memory, clouds back in the skies, and rain on the way, I can only remind you of that shiny glimpse of springtime:

Rice Parade

Posted on March 16, 2009 by Chelsea

In my mind, few foods are as simply clean and perfect as a pot of perfectly cooked rice. If foods were chosen to embody colors, rice would be the perfect candidate for whiteness. Think about it. Freshly made, just off the heat, the first time you fluff it to break up some of the clumps, it’s like little pillows. It smells comforting and grainy and nutty and warm, it’s stuffed in heating pads and pillows, it’s thrown at weddings, it’s an amazing little miracle all on its own – tiny individual grains, hard and pointed, but after 20 minutes in bubbling water they magically become this beautiful, warm, sticky heap of comfort. You can do anything with them, but why would you? How can you possibly improve upon the perfection of a fresh, hot, sticky/chewy/creamy/nutty pot of white rice?

By turning it into pudding.

I’ve never liked the look of those stovetop rice puddings that are soupy and goopy – almost like the consistency of hot cereal. No, when I think pudding, I want something that sets up firm and has to be broken through with a spoon, not just scooped up. I want a custard. Given our crazy weather today, my mom’s amended rice pudding recipe is perfect.

Cook two cups of raw rice in a pot on the stovetop until done, then take the pot off the heat, remove the lid, and let the rice cool.

In a large casserole dish combine:

3 eggs, beaten

3 cups milk

¾ cups sugar

1 ½ tsp. vanilla

¾ cups raisins

1 generous tsp. cinnamon

Cooled, cooked rice

Place casserole dish in another larger, shallow dish (I use a glass pie plate) and fill the shallow dish about halfway with hot water. Cook, uncovered, in a preheated 350 degree oven for 45-60 minutes, or until custard is just set. Remove from oven. Cool. Consume.

Soy love story

Posted on March 4, 2009 by Chelsea

During my first year off from college, I lived in a house full of girls. There were five of us. Even if I wasn’t now happily married, I would never do that again. Too many showers, too many door slams, too much food in the fridge. Have you ever tried to contain all of your perishable food in one fifth of the refrigerator? There’s no division by product, there’s no organization, just a crowded heap of undifferentiated ingredients.

While living in this harem, however, my closest friend in the house was vegetarian, and made great use of that one product so often labeled as simply a vegetarian food item and shoved by the rest of us omnivores into a back, ignored corner of the fridge of life: tofu. I had never dealt with the stuff before, and was slightly mystified by its enigmatic properties. My friend, over the course of several “housemate date nights” that inevitably incorporated deliciously good food and deliciously bad TV, showed me the way.

Step one: cut extra-firm tofu into squares (I use a 14 oz. block and usually cut 4x6x2, or whatever looks like a nice bite-size piece). Marinate tofu squares in soy sauce for ten or fifteen minutes (again, rough estimate, but I’d say these guys are sharing about ½ cup of tamari).

Step two: strain tofu squares and toss them in a light coating of brewers’ or nutritional yeast. Small flake is preferable, but large flake works fine too in a pinch. Nutritional yeast is usually available in grocery stores that have a bulk bin section.

Step three: sauté tofu in several tablespoons of very hot oil in a wok or frying pan. Don’t scramble it around too much because the coating of yeast will fall off and a major part of the flavor will be lost to the bottom of the pan. This sautéing (or stir-frying, if you prefer) process always takes longer than I expect it to. Be patient. Allow the squares to develop a dark golden color and a firm crust around the outside. When they are done, they will look like little croutons, but the taste is infinitely more complex and interesting and, of course, different given the soft tofu center of these squares of delight.

I’ve enjoyed these in Pad Thai, stir fries, on baked potatoes, and inevitably plain and scorchingly hot right out of the frying pan. They add a deep, earthy, salty flavor. There is something very pleasurable about eating them, because the outside takes on a texture somewhere between crunchy and chewy for your teeth to play with, and the inside just melts away. N. claims they are delicious with beer, which makes sense, considering that they are crusted in yeast. Tonight’s application? I’m thinking fried rice.

The interesting thing about this recipe was that my housemate never had to find room to store any leftovers in our fridge. We always ate them all.

Hasty Bites 2

Posted on February 19, 2009 by Chelsea

I have tried, in recent months, to create not only a list before going to that temptation-laden den that is the grocery store, but also a meal plan for the week, so that I can see as I shop how the seemingly random ingredients I toss haphazardly into my cart (inevitably squeaky, sticky, or with a bum wheel) fit together.

Of course, this doesn’t always work. Usually I veer off from my established course (from the meal plan, that is. The shopping cart leads me physically astray throughout the voyage) when I hit the produce section. In very late fall and very early spring, my weakness is asparagus. Pencil-thin spears, that woody green color of new growth – at this time of year these bunches of promise not only attract me from a flavor perspective, but they mean something about the weather. Since it is only February, this is sometimes a lie, but they give me something to look forward to – they permit me brief rememberances of what Spring means (in the sense that the weather warms and the sky blues, not that the allergens arrive).

My new favorite way to cook asparagus is not on the stovetop, as Mom taught me, but in the oven.

I snap the stems of the asparagus and combine them, a scattering of cherry tomatoes, two or three minced cloves of garlic, the juice from half a lemon and the juiced lemon half, sliced, on a baking sheet. I toss my veg liberally with olive oil, then add black pepper and sea salt. At 400, a bunch of skinny spears usually takes about 15 minutes to cook. If you’re feeling less technical about the whole thing, once most of the tomatoes have begun to burst it’s a good time to check for doneness.

We had our roasted asparagus with big, beautiful pan-fried salmon filets. Just salt, pepper, olive oil, and a sprinkle of dill on each.