I’ve had an urge to eat delicious roast chicken for a few weeks now, and with the common cold being shared among flatmates it can’t hurt to have some chicken soup up your (freezers’) sleeve. So today I acted upon that urge, dived into territory unknown (the meat fridges at Moore Wilson) and purchased a free range chook, size 14. I have never cooked a chicken before. The concept is so foreign I can’t even remember my mum shoving a lemon up a chooks’ ass. I’d like to say I didn’t even know where to stick that lemon, but I’m not that stupid.
So, with a crash course in how to start roasting a chook from my stepmother, Kath, I cut up two miniature lemons from the tree (free from the suspected wax of bought lemons) and a few wedges of onion, picked some thyme from the garden and tucked it under its wings, balanced a knob of butter on the white fleshy bit, covered it with foil and put it in the oven. After twenty minutes I took the foil off. After an hour, I put some potatoes around it (not recommended). By this time, Kath had gone home, and I was left to my own devices. With my novice approach, I opened the oven far too often and it never reached temperature. But I must have done something right, because at 7.22pm, that chicken was ready. And cooked through. And delicious.
Vegetarians: look away now!
(With that sprig of thyme down whatever that part of the chicken’s body that it, it looks like I practiced some open heart surgery while I waited for the bus. The fact that I missed the bus and ended up walking home means I’ll probably be needing that chicken soup I have planned for later in the week. You get to Aro Park and the temperature plummets. My ears froze. I’m feeling sniffly now. Woe is me.)