Showing posts with label chicken. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chicken. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
The Way We Were
As I was saying: memories. Memorial Day is ideally about paying respect to those who have fought and died for our freedom. However, to more than a few of us, Memorial Day is about eating meats, drinking booze, and recalling the debauchery of Memorial Day weekends past. As the great Jay Thomas said on his SiriusXM radio show, "there's probably some guy in a trench thinking, 'I hope those [expletive] back home are enjoying their ribs.'"
As for this past Sunday (spilling into Monday), I do recall several memories of the purely civilian nature... that is to say, gluttonous ones. Alas, this is the way we were, Memorial Day, 2011:
- I can't wait to make the Lemon Confit from Francis Mallman's ridiculous cookbook, The Seven Fires. Yes, I made Lemon Confit... mostly. Then I never got around to finishing it. Then I threw it away. Nincompoop!
- Ghee (clarified butter) + Lemon Juice + Chicken Stock + Garlic Powder makes an exceptional injection for chicken. Also a great mouthwash, mixer, gargle, bathing liquid, intravenous injection.
-A bottle of Vinho Verde goes down way too easily on a warm day. Yeah, I was inside at the time, comforted by air conditioning, but that doesn't mean it wasn't a scorcher outside, where I was not... ... ... work with me here.
- (not gluttony-related) My daughter looks so stinkin' cute in her bee bathing suit. Cue Blind Melon's "No Rain", please.
- When roasting a chicken, Rosé does the trick. You know, to drink while the chicken is roasting. It's also good with the chicken. As is Oregon Pinot Noir (Bergström delivered the goods this day), and especially White Burgundy (made from Chardonnay). Olivier Leflaive's "Les Sétilles" (a blend of grapes from Puligny-Montrachet and Meursault) is a ridiculous value for you Chard lovers for under $20.
- Ever dipped beef jerky into guacamole? Get ready to live, kemosabe.
- My next door neighbor has started experimenting with homemade hard cider. It's certainly not bad. Next time, I won't throw him under the bus by breaking out two bottles of Diane Flynt's incredible Foggy Ridge Cider from Virginia after tasting his efforts. Diane had nothing to do with getting me these bottles. If you in Virginia, buy some. Or do something illegal. We'll never know which route I took.
In retrospect, and in homage to the post title, I probably should've set the day's compilation video to the song "Barbra Streisand", by Duck Sauce. But this was a day for fowl of a different feather, and duck sauce has no place in the presence of chicken.
Ah, the memories...
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
GUEST POST! - Jointing a Chicken: A Moment in Vinous Clarity
Sam Klingberg- Chicago's "Broke Wino" (and @brokewino on Twitter)- has burst onto the scene in the past year or so as one of the sharpest, most clever, and downright uncouth wine bloggers around. He's destined to be the voice of millenial wine drinkers for years to come...
...not to mention Sam's a cool cat with Georgia roots. When he approached me with this article, I said, "sure, I'll post it. It's more interesting and well-thought-out than anything I'll ever write." Plus, it gave me an excuse to post an exceptionally creepy photo I took years ago.
Talk to you soon. Sláinte!
-Joe
Chickens are this: members of petting zoos, and historical attractions. I believe people used to keep chickens as pets before dogs and cats were domesticated. This tradition is still kept alive in Ethiopia where a dinner quest is twice as likely to meet a chicken roosting above his or her head before he'd find anything that most Westerners would consider edible (although I assure you the wot is good.)
Generally, most Westerners also have a similarly primitive idea of what a chicken is. Pinkish cuts of various geometrical shapes that come shrink wrapped and arrayed in yellow styrofoam trays at the supermarket is the generally accepted theory. So it was with this general perception of the most common fowl on the planet that sent me to the kitchen, knife in hand, prepared to live as deliberately as modern life would allow.
Let me back up: I am obsessed with the interwebz. Countless glasses of cheap Sauvignon Blanc have slaked my thirst in hot pursuit of the absolute worst cover of a Train song on You Tube. I couldn't even begin to describe the hours of terrible songs being sung by terrible talent in front of terrible mounds of past-due laundry.
One day, I don't know how, but during a similar journey I stumbled on a video of Gordon Ramsay jointing a chicken. I was the single most awesome thing I had ever seen. I promptly spent the next three days watching every aspiring culinary internet personality hack apart a dead bird's carcass. From transforming live cluckers into organized mounds of meat on a cutting board, to mechanical separation, I couldn't get enough of it.
After I felt that I had an ample understanding of how to make a cute little french cut on the drumstick and properly excise the oyster with those succulent thighs, I headed over to the supermarket to buy my very own whole chicken fryer (Chicago seems to be oddly dearth of live fowl to butcher.) I returned home knife in hand, cutting board in place, and a cold, goose-bumped carcass awaiting my culinary experiment. I mean, the thing was already dead, what's the worst thing that could happen?
I soon realized, though, why almost everyone on You Tube had the big ass hunk of wood cutting board. My little plastic one slipped and slid around the counter recklessly, which was a little scary. But the feeling sharp steel cutting through bone, flesh, and sinew was too intoxicating to allow me to fear for my future maneuverability. Prehensility be damned.
I felt like a little school girl, watching the familiar "roasting" bird transform into succulent thighs and juicy tenderloins. Those strange looking pieces that were so familiar rolled in bread crumbs and sizzling in an oven set to 425º suddenly had a sense of place. I always knew it was a "thigh" but it certainly didn't seem like anything that could be part of a leg. But now, I could actually feel it. I popped that sucker out of joint and sliced cleanly through pure bone and tendon. There was no denying it once supported any and all vertical endeavors.
I've been obsessed with the Mâconnais lately. Perhaps because I went to high school in Macon, GA, sister city of the region's namesake, Mâcon (Pronounced, MAH-cone, I think.) Perhaps because it produces beautiful, damn straight succulent chardonnay. And, so affordable! You wouldn't believe the $15-$20 bottles of golden righteousness you can get. Producers like Rijckaert, Thévenet, and Chateau la Greffière will slay your palate. There simply will be no turning back.
Like a chicken has it's delicious dark meat in the extremities and coveted tenderloins tucked neatly between the sternum and the breast, wine is just as much about place. And Mâcon, for me, is a perfect opportunity to experience terroir, or the "somewhere-ness" of wine, without a small-business loan (because serious drinking is absolutely a business, have you seen Bordeaux prices lately?)
There's a limestone belt that sits underneath the Viré-Clessé, that's what it tastes like. St-Véran has spritely wines thanks to its sandy soil, and the under-appreciated Lugny is like a jolly, plump sister. All of these sub-regions of Mâcon have personality, and will make you down right butt-naked nasty about wine. Guaranteed.
This is just a little insight into why I'm so crazy about wine. And assuming you drink responsibly, taking a dive through the Mâconnais carries a hell of a lot less danger than slicing through a bunch of chicken bones. Go get that oyster.
Jointing a Chicken: A Moment in Vinous Clarity
by Sam Klingberg, www.brokewino.com
Generally, most Westerners also have a similarly primitive idea of what a chicken is. Pinkish cuts of various geometrical shapes that come shrink wrapped and arrayed in yellow styrofoam trays at the supermarket is the generally accepted theory. So it was with this general perception of the most common fowl on the planet that sent me to the kitchen, knife in hand, prepared to live as deliberately as modern life would allow.
Let me back up: I am obsessed with the interwebz. Countless glasses of cheap Sauvignon Blanc have slaked my thirst in hot pursuit of the absolute worst cover of a Train song on You Tube. I couldn't even begin to describe the hours of terrible songs being sung by terrible talent in front of terrible mounds of past-due laundry.
One day, I don't know how, but during a similar journey I stumbled on a video of Gordon Ramsay jointing a chicken. I was the single most awesome thing I had ever seen. I promptly spent the next three days watching every aspiring culinary internet personality hack apart a dead bird's carcass. From transforming live cluckers into organized mounds of meat on a cutting board, to mechanical separation, I couldn't get enough of it.
After I felt that I had an ample understanding of how to make a cute little french cut on the drumstick and properly excise the oyster with those succulent thighs, I headed over to the supermarket to buy my very own whole chicken fryer (Chicago seems to be oddly dearth of live fowl to butcher.) I returned home knife in hand, cutting board in place, and a cold, goose-bumped carcass awaiting my culinary experiment. I mean, the thing was already dead, what's the worst thing that could happen?
I soon realized, though, why almost everyone on You Tube had the big ass hunk of wood cutting board. My little plastic one slipped and slid around the counter recklessly, which was a little scary. But the feeling sharp steel cutting through bone, flesh, and sinew was too intoxicating to allow me to fear for my future maneuverability. Prehensility be damned.
I felt like a little school girl, watching the familiar "roasting" bird transform into succulent thighs and juicy tenderloins. Those strange looking pieces that were so familiar rolled in bread crumbs and sizzling in an oven set to 425º suddenly had a sense of place. I always knew it was a "thigh" but it certainly didn't seem like anything that could be part of a leg. But now, I could actually feel it. I popped that sucker out of joint and sliced cleanly through pure bone and tendon. There was no denying it once supported any and all vertical endeavors.
I've been obsessed with the Mâconnais lately. Perhaps because I went to high school in Macon, GA, sister city of the region's namesake, Mâcon (Pronounced, MAH-cone, I think.) Perhaps because it produces beautiful, damn straight succulent chardonnay. And, so affordable! You wouldn't believe the $15-$20 bottles of golden righteousness you can get. Producers like Rijckaert, Thévenet, and Chateau la Greffière will slay your palate. There simply will be no turning back.
Like a chicken has it's delicious dark meat in the extremities and coveted tenderloins tucked neatly between the sternum and the breast, wine is just as much about place. And Mâcon, for me, is a perfect opportunity to experience terroir, or the "somewhere-ness" of wine, without a small-business loan (because serious drinking is absolutely a business, have you seen Bordeaux prices lately?)
There's a limestone belt that sits underneath the Viré-Clessé, that's what it tastes like. St-Véran has spritely wines thanks to its sandy soil, and the under-appreciated Lugny is like a jolly, plump sister. All of these sub-regions of Mâcon have personality, and will make you down right butt-naked nasty about wine. Guaranteed.
This is just a little insight into why I'm so crazy about wine. And assuming you drink responsibly, taking a dive through the Mâconnais carries a hell of a lot less danger than slicing through a bunch of chicken bones. Go get that oyster.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Preyed Upon by Infomercials
Remember this snake-oil salesman?
Yes, it's Ron Popeil, founder of Ronco, and crown-prince of spray-on hair, food dehydrators, and the Showtime Rotisserie, a device whose 3 AM infomercials have surely given many a college stoner a food-motivated stir in the britches.
Shamefully, I too fell victim to the sweet siren's song of cooking a whole turkey, baby back ribs, hot dogs and sausages for the whole neighborhood....oh...I'm hyperventilating. How could I survive without this ultimate kitchen gadget?! Set it, forget it, and become the champion of the kitchen: envied by men, and adored by women for my roasting prowess.
This was eight years ago. I saw a deal online...$99 bucks, and I would become an Iron Chef in my own mind.
Needless to say, it was used a couple times, then boxed up; set aside; shunned for years and years. But, like a phoenix from the ashes, we pulled the rotisserie out of mothballs this weekend and thought we'd give it another go. I'd procured a few bottles of freshly opened, then recorked Bordeaux (disclaimer: I got these as part of a tasting hosted by the Union des Grands Crus de Bordeaux...more on that later). While Cab is often a little hefty for roast chicken, I found these 2007 Bordeaux to be quite approachable, and I had chicken at home. What? You think I should've gone out and purchased something more appropriate? Who am I? Charles Montgomery Burns? I'm broke, son! Maybe if you'd click a link once in a while... :)
As it turned out, the chicken was great. I actually split-tested it against another chicken that was pan roasted in butter and its own juices. The rotisserie chicken was more flavorful, juicier, and had crisper skin. Oh, Ron Popeil, you rascal! You've done it again. We were so delighted with the results that I ended up doing a half leg of lamb in it the following night.
I think the secret is to use something small enough to not crowd the cooking area (the chicken was under 5 lbs. and the lamb was 2 lbs.), as well as trust your own instincts (or a meat thermometer), rather than the "catch all" cooking times on the side of the Showtime.
So, my hat is off to you, Ron (oh, and I need some of that hair spray). In my mind, you've been upgraded from "snake oil salesman" to "P.T. Barnum-style rejuvenating tonic peddler", like this guy:
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