Don't Try This At Home

Last night, the menu was Roasted Half Chicken with Pan Gravy, Mashed Potatoes and Peas, and I started out by butchering the whole chicken myself. Figured it could be a "before" experience, with butchery class starting next week. (Actually, I cut each half in half, so truth in advertising requires that I restate the menu as "Roasted Quarter Chicken...")

I tossed the back and giblets into the freezer for stock, stuffed maitre d' butter under the chicken skin, and seasoned the pieces heavily with salt and pepper before dusting them with flour. I melted some clarified butter in my big skillet, browned the chicken thoroughly on both sides, and then popped the pan into a 400 degree oven. Potatoes happened. Wine happened. A bowl game and the Warriors happened, so there was no Jeopardy. I added a couple glugs of white wine to the pan about seven, and a half a can of low-salt chicken stock about fifteen minutes later. At 7:25, I pulled out the pan and set it stove-top to finish up the gravy. First, I removed the chicken onto a separate dish, and put it back into the oven (now off) along with plates to be warmed. Then I grabbed a teaspoon to taste the liquid in the pan.

David heard the true feeling behind my "OW. OW. OW." and rushed into the kitchen while he was still saying "Everything alright in there?" By that time, I had my right hand under a stream of cold water. Silly girl — I didn't leave a hot pad on the skillet handle to remind myself that it had been in a 400 degree oven for the last 45 minutes. I immediately took three extra strength Tylenol, and set a extra tall glass of ice water at my place setting, which I "hugged" with my hand during dinner. Hugged the water, drank the wine. The chicken was delicious. (And fully cooked.)

As we cleared the table, David asked about my hand, and I told him that the meds were kicking in. He asked if he needed to take me to the hospital. I declined the offer. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, and said, "Minus five points."