Chicken

Eastside Road, April 25, 2013—

I DON'T THINK ANYTHING is harder to cook to perfect satisfaction than chicken on the bone. And certainly on the grill. Leg, thigh, breast; every edible part of the chicken is composed of muscle thick and thin, stringy and soft, close or far from the bone: how can anyone ever cook the damn thing through so nothing is slimy raw, nothing burnt to a crisp?

But we went down the hill to the neighbors for dinner tonight, and Eric had put a couple of small friers on the grill over a wood fire, and somehow he made it work: the chicken was perfectly done, leg and thigh, subtly flavored with the wood smoke, still tasting of — well, chicken. Not feathers; not plastic; not butcher paper; not refrigeration. Chicken.

With it, sweet potato crisps: rounds sliced thin and roasted in the oven. A green salad. And a delicious cake quite new to me, made of ground almonds and grated orange and egg and, I think, a little honey, tasting a little like an omelet, or a Spanish tortilla, but definitely a cake, and definitely delicious.

Mourvedre, Preston of Dry Creek, 2010