by F. L. Fowler
3 Now that you have tightly secured the wings, it is time to bind the body and legs. Pull the ends of the twine underneath the legs, crossing it underneath the bird, and wrap it around the ankles, binding them together. Wrap twine several times to make sure the ankles are tightly bound (see photo 2). Wrap the twine around the tail, pulling it tight to close up the cavity. Give the twine once last tug to make sure the bindings are secure, then knot the string. Trim any excess twine and step back to admire your handiwork.
4 Place the chicken breast side up on a rack set over a rimmed baking sheet. Drizzle with oil. Roast until the thigh juices run clear when pierced with the tip of a knife and the skin is crisp and golden, about 1 hour and 15 minutes. Let rest 20 minutes before cutting the restraints and having your way with it.
LEARNING THE ROPES
Much pleasure and satisfaction is to be had from tying up your bird. Not only does it show your chicken who’s boss, but a tight binding ensures the chicken cooks exactly how you want it—evenly, moist, and tender. It also closes off the chicken’s cavity, so the juices swelling within can’t spill out, at least not until you’re ready for them.
Holy Mole Chicken
He picks me up from the shelf and I notice for the first time an ingredients list posted on the door of the Sub-Zero. His list reads as bossy and kinky as he talks, and it includes peanuts, chocolate, raisins—and me. Pervy.
“Are we making cookies?” I cluck coquettishly.
He glances at the list and narrows his eyes at me playfully. “No, Miss Hen. I haven’t figured out how to make you a dessert. Yet.” He quirks his lips into a smile. “I have something more—elaborate—planned for today.”
“Ah, well. What if I don’t feel elaborate today?”
“You don’t want to cook?” he asks.
“Not just cook,” I murmur tentatively. Am I really going to ask?
“I see.” He frowns.
Okay, here goes nothing.
“I want you to make dinner with me. Simple. Normal. Unfinessed.”
His face clouds. Shit, this isn’t going well.
He cocks his head from one side to the other. And again. Jeez, he’s really discombobulated.
“You want candles and linen, hearts and flowers,” he says. “But I don’t know how to do that, Chicken. My tastes are very particular.”
“I want you to taste only me. Taste me for what I am. Clean your plate. Mop up my juices with bread …”
He takes a dazed step back, and for a moment the air grows tense.
“Please,” I whisper.
“I don’t know,” he mutters, and he stalks off to find something.
My subconscious is hopping mad. Now you’ve done it. You’ve made him chicken out.
But he returns with that foxy look in his eyes. His apron hangs off his hips in that way that makes my whole body gabble with glee. He’s holding something. It’s a chunk of chocolate.
Oh shit, he really knows how to distract a girl.
I still wish he’d make dinner with me, with me tasting like me. But maybe it’s okay to let him cook me if there’s chocolate involved. Just this once.
roasted chicken legs with mole sauce
SERVES 4 TO 6
2 teaspoons coarse kosher salt
3 chicken legs, thighs and drumsticks separated (about 3 pounds total)
1 tablespoon coriander seeds
½ teaspoon whole black peppercorns
2 whole cloves
2 chipotle chiles in adobo sauce, seeded if you like it soft and mild
2 plum tomatoes, roughly chopped
1 small white onion, roughly chopped
¼ cup roasted, salted peanuts, plus chopped peanuts for garnish (optional)
¼ cup raisins
3 ounces bittersweet chocolate, grated or chopped
3 garlic cloves, chopped
2 teaspoons dried oregano
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, plus more as needed
Lime wedges, for serving
Cooked rice, for serving
1 Massage 1¼ teaspoons of salt all over the chicken legs.
2 To make the mole, warm a small skillet over medium-high heat. Add the coriander seeds, black peppercorns, and cloves and toast the spices until they are fragrant and start to smoke, 2 to 3 minutes. Transfer the spices to a blender and add ½ cup water, the chipotle chilies, tomatoes, onion, peanuts, raisins, chocolate, garlic, oregano, cinnamon, and remaining ¾ teaspoon salt and blend until smooth.
3 Center a rack in the oven and preheat to 325°F.
4 In a Dutch oven over high heat, warm the olive oil. Add the chicken legs in batches and sear until golden brown and crisp on all sides, about 8 minutes, adding more oil to the pan if needed. Pour the mole over the waiting legs, making sure it coats the meat evenly, cover the pan, and bring to a simmer over high heat. Transfer to the oven and bake until the meat is very tender, about 1 hour, turning the legs after 30 minutes.
5 If the sauce isn’t as thick and glossy as you want it, transfer the chicken legs to a serving platter and cover with foil to keep warm. Put the pot back on the stove and bring the liquid to a simmer. Let the sauce reduce and thicken until it’s exactly how you like it. Skim off any fat before serving. Garnish with chopped peanuts if they turn you on, and lime wedges. Enjoy this on a soft bed of fluffy rice.
Hot Rubbed Hen
You really can’t keep buying me things.” I’m looking furiously at yet another spice he’s purchased.
“I like you in fine things,” he replies. “I have the means. Besides, there’s a recipe—”
“To hell with the recipes!” I interrupt, fuming. I can’t keep up with him. Every night it’s some hot new preparation. And this one looks downright fiery.
“But the harissa will be good on you. It will test your limits. And mine.” He smiles that searing smile, and my bones loosen. Involuntarily I relent.
He goes to the stereo to put on some loud pop music. He coats a brush with the hot paste. He lashes the harissa into my skin with the brush. Ow—it smarts. But quickly my skin is singing at its touch. He strokes my neck and shoulders, painting a trail of fire leading all the way down there. Hot damn.
He slips two fingers inside me, making me gasp. The touch of his spiced fingertips ignites hot sparks under my skin that fire into my bloodstream and pulse around my body, heating everything in their path. I groan … Oh my—a conflagration radiates throughout my cavity … everywhere. Fuck.
I’m building unstoppably. He continues to paint my skin with fire, in slow, even strokes at first … but as his control unravels, the brush moves faster and faster. My back arches as I open myself to the consuming, punishing, heavenly sensation … pushing me, pushing me … Scoville unit after Scoville unit … spiraling into a peppery paroxysm. When I think I can take no more, he abruptly stills.
His breathing ragged, he turns me gently over onto a soft bed of beans.
“You wear that well,” he says. “Keep it on for the rest of the day. I’ll cook you tonight.”
roasted chicken with harissa, preserved lemons, chickpeas, and mint
SERVES 4
1½ cups cooked chickpeas, rinsed if from a can (use one 15-ounce can)
1 large red onion, peeled and cut into ½-inch chunks
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
5 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon extra-virgin olive oil
2 teaspoons harissa or other hot sauce
2 tablespoons seeded and chopped preserved lemon
2 teaspoons coarse kosher salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon dried thyme
½ teaspoon ground allspice
1 (3½- to 4-pound) chicken, patted dry with paper towels
Mint leaves, for serving
1 In a medium bowl, stir the chickpeas, onion, and garlic with 3 tablespoons of the olive oil and 1 teaspoon of the harissa; scatter on the bottom of a roasting pan.
&nbs
p; 2 In a small bowl, mix together the preserved lemon, salt, pepper, thyme, and allspice. Massage it all over the chicken flesh, especially inside of the cavity. In a small bowl, whisk the remaining harissa with a teaspoon oil. Use a brush to coat the skin with the harissa mixture.
3 Lay the chicken on top of the beans, breast side down. Cover the chicken with foil or plastic wrap and let sit in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes and up to 1 day.
4 Let the chicken warm up at room temperature while the oven preheats to 375°F.
5 Roast the chicken for 20 minutes, then thrust a wooden spoon into the cavity of the bird and flip so the breast side is up. Continue to cook until the chicken is golden brown and cooked through, about 25 to 30 minutes longer. Serve with mint leaves.
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.
roasted chicken with mustard, fresh basil, and garlic
Mustard-Spanked Chicken
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.
crispy fried chicken
Totally Fried Chicken
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.
Cream-Slicked Chick
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
1 garlic clove, minced
1 lime, zested and juiced
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 (3½- to 4-pound) chicken, cut into 8 pieces, patted dry with paper towels
1 teaspoon coarse kosher salt
Chopped chives
1 Preheat the oven to 400°F. Whisk together the cream, mustard, garlic, lime zest and juice, and pepper. Rub the chicken parts with the salt. Drizzle the cream mixture over the chicken, tossing to coat.
2 Line a jelly-roll pan or baking sheet with a nonstick liner, or with aluminum foil, oiling the foil. Arrange the chicken to fit in a single layer, leaving breathing room between the pieces. Roast for 20 minutes, then raise the oven temperature to 500°F and continue to roast until the chicken is cooked through and golden skinned; the tender breasts will take about 25 minutes, and muscled legs will need 5 to 10 minutes more. Serve the chicken garnished with chives.
chicken fricassee with prosciutto, tomatoes, and sweet peppers
Chile-Lashed Fricassee
The ingredients list on the Sub-Zero is unusually detailed today. It’s classic Blades—bossy, elaborate, and demanding, and it ends with “PURE New Mexico chile powder.”
Jeez. To his usual arsenal of barked commands, bullying stares, and aggressive flavoring, he’s now added shouty capitals. Is he trying to impress me or intimidate me? He’s so mysterious.
When he struts back into the kitchen, barefoot in jeans and a tight black T-shirt, he places a bag of bright red powder on the counter in front of me.
“I brought us something new to play with today.”
I think I’m scared of whatever it is.
But I can’t take my mind off the chile. It looks dangerous, exotic, hot. I imagine his skilled fingers rubbing that tangy sting deep into my skin. Who’s hot tonight, squawks my inner goddess, who’s hot tonight? She’s got a little pitchfork and she’s thrusting it up and down suggestively. I’m really not sure what she’s trying to tell me with that one, but somehow it’s convincing.