Eastside Road, March 27, 2011—
HOME IN THE COUNTRY after four nights away, and consequently four nights eating out. What to make for dinner this Sunday night, for ourselves and our guests, a couple of old friends from Netherlands?What better than a roast chicken?
As soon as we got home with it I unwrapped it; clucked my tongue in disappointment that there were no giblets, no heart, no liver; then salted it and rewrapped it loosely.
L. fixed some potatoes to roast with garlic and rosemary, and prepared the pound and a quarter of snow peas she'd bought. She preheated the oven to 475°, which turned out to be more like 500°. I buttered the chicken a bit, then set it on its side in the folding chicken cradle, in the roast pan.
Twenty minutes later I turned it on the other side and dropped the oven back to 400° or so. Another twenty minutes, and I set it on its back. It was beginning to look pretty good.
In another half hour or so it was just about done. Tent it and rip it, Thérèse said enigmatically, so I folded a piece of aluminum foil over the breast to keep it from cooking longer, slashed the thighs a bit to get them to cook faster, and returned it to the oven. Before long it was time to take it out.
Roast chicken, roast potatoes, and steamed snow peas. Green salad. Applesauce and ice cream. Just what the doctor ordered.
Morgon, "Les Pierres Fines," Louis Vergé, 2007
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