Eating My Crispy Skinned Words

Yes, I'm eating my words...and, boy, do they taste good. I'm not too proud to admit my mistakes, especially with chicken greased lips. So here's a conversion story that begins with a confession.

The one or two readers of this blog might recall that its author has publicly aired her on and off again relationship with a certain fowl. For a girl who grew up with a chicken pen in the backyard, it was a relationship worth working for. Determined to do my part, I put a few braised chicken thigh dishes in the dinner rotation, congratulating myself for working with my chicken's shortcomings. Well, in full disclosure, I really hadn't done my part...

Deep breath.

Crack knuckles.

I have never, ever cooked.......a whole chicken.

Whew. I said it...typed it...There it is, common knowledge for anyone who cares to google Sarah Miller chicken living a lie.

It never really seemed worth it to me. You know, you've got to brine it, baste it, hover over it, and all for something that is likely to turn out stringy and bland. When I first came across this roast chicken recipe recommended by Thomas Keller, I thought, Come on. No way chicken, salt, and pepper counts as a recipe at Bouchon. Nope. Not buying it.

But Mr. Keller's enthusiasm must have been picking away at my stony resolve because I found myself doing a double-take at a cute little Trader Joe's free range chicken. Okay, Mr. Bouchon. I'll play your little game.

Well, folks, I'm here to say, "Well played, Mr. Bouchon. Well played, indeed."

This is the roast chicken recipe you've wanted all your life. It's the one I swore I didn't want, and the one that has me now smitten for chicken. The cooking method produces a skin so crispy, so light, you might think you're biting into an airy puff pastry. But there's more to this bird than its lovely golden shell. The meat is juicy, delicate, almost buttery-tasting.

I've been thumbing through Harold McGee's On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen at bedtime for a few months now, but I can't promise the explanation I'm about to give could stand up to the scientific method. It seems to me sort of like this chicken poaches itself within its own skin. And this, I think, is why the skin must be absolutely dry. No basting, no buttering, no squeezed lemons. You pat this chicken down nice and dry, throw him in the oven, and leave him there until he's done. Less moisture means less steam which means no more pasty chicken skin. Turns out chicken isn't so needy after all.

Well, that's not entirely true. There is a, shall we say, dark side to Mr. Bouchon's chicken. A billowing, suffocating, dark side. The smoke. My chicken skin's snap, crackle, and popping rained so much hot grease onto my oven elements so that by the time I pulled this bird out of the oven, I had dismantled all my smoke detectors, opened my kitchen windows, and cranked my makeshift ventilation system to over-drive (read: turned my industrial strength fan to high and pointed it toward an open door).

Now, I admit, I have a smoky oven. Push it past 375, and I'm going to pay for it with teary eyes, and clothes that smell like I spent the night passed out on the floor of D's Six Pax and Dogz. But this was a different genre of oven smoke altogether. I've amended Mr. Bouchon's recipe with a few tips that, in retrospect, may...may have improved the ugly side of an otherwise beautiful dish. Please, though, if you live in a small, poorly ventilated apartment, do not attempt this recipe. Find a friend with an open kitchen and a smoking habit, and suggest a nice chicken dinner chez toi.

Crispiest Crispy Roast Chicken
Recipe by Thomas Keller, Bouchon. Serves 4.


1 chicken, 3-4 pounds
coarse salt
fresh cracked pepper
thyme, optional

a roasting pan with a rack
butcher's twine
safety goggles, recommended

1. In a futile attempt to keep your oven from smoking, line its bottom rack with aluminum foil. I can't tell if this made any difference, but it's worth a try.

2. Rinse off your chicken and pat it very dry, inside and out, with paper towels.

3. Preheat your oven to 450 degrees F.

4. Salt and pepper the inside of your bird. Toss in several sprigs of thyme if you have some handy.

5. Truss that baby up. Trussing, so the experts tell me, make for more even cooking and a more "attractive" bird. For trussing know-how (which I definitely needed), see this video.

6. Sprinkle lots of salt over your chicken, a good tablespoon or so. Crack some pepper over it.

7. Put the chicken in a roasting pan, and when your oven is at 450, throw it in.

8. Open your kitchen windows. Take the batteries out of any nearby smoke detectors. Get out of the kitchen.

9. Roast your chicken until its done, 65-75 minutes. Should you feel the need to check in on your bird, I highly recommend you don some sort of protective eye gear. Avoid inhaling as you open the oven door.

10. Don aforementioned goggles. Remove your cooked chicken, refusing to drop it as hot oil sputters up onto your forearms. Marvel at its crispy glory. Let it rest for 15 minutes or so before carving it. Cut off the twine.

11. Paraphrasing Mr. Keller's carving advice would do him a disservice, so I quote: " Separate the middle wing joint and eat that immediately. Remove the legs and thighs. I like to take off the backbone and eat one of the oysters, the two succulent morsels of meat embedded here, and give the other to the person I'm cooking with. But I take the chicken butt for myself. I could never understand why my brothers always fought over that triangular tip — until one day I got the crispy, juicy fat myself. These are the cook's rewards. Cut the breast down the middle and serve it on the bone, with one wing joint still attached to each. The preparation is not meant to be super elegant."

12.Slather the meat with butter, if you want to to experience raptures of excess. Slather it with mustard if you simply want perfection.

Don't forget to put the batteries back in your smoke detectors.

Beer, Brittle, and Bacon

Pittsburgh has treated me well in the five or so months I've been here. Its bubble-less real estate market made it possible to buy a little house. Its friendly folk have kept me from pining for the home state. Its Steelers' jersey wearing populus has made me aware of the rhythms of the football season (this from a girl reared on UNC-Duke basketball). Its expansive parks have lured me into my running clothes and out of the house. Despite all of this, I must register a complaint with Pittsburgh...well, more accurately with the state of Pennsylvania, and this complaint that has to do with something dear to me. Pennsylvania has something against wine.

Skipping over the legislative details (about which I know very little), I will say this to those of you unfamiliar with Pennsylvania liquor laws: wine must be bought in state-run liquor stores. There are no wine shops in Pittsburgh, no wine to be found in grocery stores. Sure, we have a Whole Foods and a Trader Joe's, but sans wine, they're just not the same. I have found a few of my regulars bottled next to the Jim Beam and Seagram's, but pricier by two or three dollars, and that's quite a difference for a struggling graduate student who prefers her wine in the 7-9 dollar range.

All this has been a bit depressing for an oenophile from North Carolina. But then, I discovered, there's Pittsburgh beer. And by Pittsburgh beer, I don't mean the various incarnations of Iron City...I mean really good locally brewed beer. A beer-savvy neighbor recently led me to the East End Brewing Company where thirsty Pittsburghers clutch their empty glass "Growlers," and wait in line to have them refilled again with Big Hop IPA, Black Strap Stout, or maybe a limited seasonal brew...my favorite: the supremely bitter The Bitter End.

Well, these beers may have slaked my thirst, but they have planted in me a hunger for something crunchy and salty. Something more upscale, dare I say, than french fries or pretzels. Something worthy of The Bitter End. I have discovered: peanut brittle was made to be eaten with beer.

Peanut brittle may not merit the name "dessert," but it is so much more than a "snack." I once thought that I had discovered the perfectly balanced equation of salty and sweet when I tossed a bag of peanut M&M's into my buttered popcorn at a discount movie theater in 1994. But this peanut brittle has called me to abandon that perfect combination for one that may not be available in movie theatre concession stands, but eminently capable of being stuffed in ziploc bags and smuggled into virtually any munch-inducing establishment. This is why I've been sneaking peanut brittle into local Pittsburgh bars. Alternating sips of Big Hop with nibbles of peanut and macadamia nut brittle, I can hardly muster what once seemed so attractive about a glass of pinot noir and a dish of olives.

I've introduced a few fellow beer drinkers to the pleasures of this combination. After a taste or two, a certain ambivalent reader of The New Yorker magazine formulated a description of my brittle that sent me back to the kitchen, this time armed with a pound of cured pork. In a moment of culinary abandon, I concocted my own brittle brew. For those of you who like a dollop of maple syrup on your bacon, and those of you who have been known to request peanut butter with your pancake and bacon breakfast, I have for you a culinary curiosity certain to please: peanut bacon brittle.

Doubts aside, this is a candy meant for grown-ups--or aspiring grown-ups, as the case may be. The vegetarian version of this brittle is excellent, each bite affording an addictive ratio of maple flavored crunch and salted nut heft. It may seem counterintuitive that, with bacon, this brittle takes on an air of sophistication, like popcorn sprinkled with truffle oil or deviled eggs topped with caviar; but this is what my initial sampling has led me to conclude. A guilded lily never tasted so good.

Oh yes, and it's easy to make. You will have to dust off your candy thermometer. Peanut brittle made without one is likely to turn from sweet and golden to blackish and bitter in a heartbeat. Brittle not heated enough, on the other hand, will pull the fillings out of your teeth.

Peanut and Macadamia Nut Brittle, bacon optional
Makes a bit less than 2 sheet pans of brittle.
Recipe adapted from one that appeared in Bon Appetit, November 1992, submitted by Lisa Mayfield of Raleigh, NC.


vegetable cooking spray
3 cups sugar
2 cups water
3/4 cup light corn syrup
3/4 cup dark corn syrup
2 cups salted roasted peanuts
2 cups salted macadamia nuts
1/2 teaspoon coarse salt
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 tablespoon baking soda
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1. Put two sheet pans in the oven and heat at 200 degrees.

2. Stir first 4 ingredients in heavy large saucepan over medium heat until sugar dissolves. Increase heat to high and boil without stirring until candy thermometer registers 260 degrees, about 20 minutes. (The time your sugar will take to reach this temperature may be much different. This is why you have to rely on a thermometer).

3. Reduce heat to medium-low. Mix in nuts and butter and cook until thermometer registers 295 degrees, stirring constantly, about 15 minutes. All this stirring will make you tired. Persevere. You will soon be munching yummy brittle.

4. As your brittle reaches 295 degrees, quickly pull out your warmed sheet pans and spray them thoroughly with vegetable cooking oil. Set them nearby.

5. Add baking soda and vanilla and stir briskly while the mixture foams up like some sort of chemistry project. Immediately pour out onto sheet pans, dividing evenly. Spread out brittle as thinly as possible. It probably will not cover the surface of the entire pan...this is ok. Let stand until cold and hard.

6. Break brittle into pieces. Store in airtight containers at room temperature. (Can be prepared 1 month ahead.)


Bacon Option

In place of the macadamia nuts, add 1 pound cooked, coarsely chopped bacon. Substitute 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper for coarse salt.

Mixing it up on New Year's

Seeing as the new year is well underway, this bit about New Year's Eve dinner is not entirely breaking news. Luckily, improved punctuality was not among my New Year's resolutions. I promise I will eventually get around to the food, but by way of an initial detour through a phenomenon that occurs in the gap between December 31 of one year and January 1 of the next: in a half-second's space of time, new year's resolutions go into effect. The promise of a fresh start, the opportunity for a clean break...a new calendar can buttress all sorts of intentions with an extra shot of determination. Some of my resolutions of past years: to exercise more often, to eat a more healthy breakfast (or even any breakfast), to be more thrifty, to correspond more often with my friends. More, more, more. I can't ever remember resolving to do less of something, much less to keep doing what I'm doing.

Well, this year, several familiar resolutions presented themselves. In addition to those of previous years (is there ever complete success with a New Year's resolution?), I could have added: to finish my degree, to read more novels, and to spend a little less time surfing food blogs.

But then I got to thinking, why must beginning the new year be so much about buckling down, becoming more disciplined, and putting things in order when it could be about becoming more flexible, experimenting, mixing things up a little? Resolving to eat a better breakfast seems like forcing myself to adopt a painful regimen. Why not happily choose to try something new, expand my early morning experience, mix a little indulgence in with my coffee?

I'm naming 2007 The Year of the Mix. I might mix up my exercise routine, mix some novels into my "to read" pile, mix up some original recipes, maybe even mix a new puppy in with our little family.

The Year of the Mix began on New Year's Eve. We decided to forego New Year's on the town for a New Year's night in "Casino-Royale Style" with some friends in Washington DC. We dressed to the nines, lapped at a spring of freely flowing prosecco, and played Texas Hold 'Em poker with fancy clay-filled chips: blues at 5 million, reds at 10 million, blacks at a whopping 20 million. We mixed the poker with some Karaoke Revolution--a video game that allows you to choose a character (complete with your choice of body type, hair color, clothing, and accessories), and guides your pitch as you sing competitively against the characters chosen by the rest of the players.

It struck me, though, that we didn't really need the alter egos, as we were nearly in costume already. Norman and Kimberly were a mixture of black velvet and purple fishnet with a smatter of crimson lipstick. Patrick and I were a mixture of black silk, suspenders, and costume diamonds. To the tune of music from half a dozen Bond movies, we plunked down chips, and nibbled on panko-crusted shrimp balls.

Martinis were shaken. We became characters comfortable with betting 40 million on a pair of fives. Cigarillos were smoked. Bluffs filled the air. Patrick had the best luck and, I imagine, the best bluff. Armed with this potent combination, he raked in the chips. Philosophers, it seems, may seek the truth, but will gladly forsake it should the payoff be large enough.

As midnight approached, we enjoyed the final dish of the year. A lamb chop with kiwi salsa proved a fitting way to start the Year of the Mix. There are those people out there who don't like to mix their foods. "Salty should not be combined with sweet. Keep savory flavors away from the dessert course. And please don't put fruit in my meat dish." I could beg to differ with them all, but the latter prohibition is a real shame. Pork and apples love each other. Poached tilapia never tasted better than with avocado and grapefruit. And lamb...lamb is oh so good with a whole string of fruits: apricots, prunes, raisins.

Here, both fresh and dried fruit are mixed together into a salsa. The kiwi and cranberries bring a bright, citrusy note that cuts through the slightly musky flavor of lamb. The pear gives it a bit of a crunch, and the scallions some savory depth. With each little bite of warm lamb, you get a minty sweet and sour kick. It's a combination I'm planning on mixing up again in the near future--on a night, perhaps, when my husband hasn't robbed me out of more than a billion dollars.

Lamb Chops with Cranberry-Kiwi Salsa
Adapted from Bon Appetit, April, 1999. Serves 2 as main course, 4 as starter course.

2 small (not too ripe) pears, diced
2 kiwis, peeled and diced
4 tablespoons dried cranberries
3 tablespoons chopped scallions
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons honey
1 tablespoon chopped fresh mint
salt and pepper
4 1-inch-thick lamb chops, rib or loin, trimmed of excess fat
mint leaves for garnish

1. Combine pears, kiwis, cranberries, scallions and lemon juice in medium bowl. Mix in 1 tablespoon honey and chopped mint. Season salsa to taste with salt and pepper. Let stand 30 minutes, tossing occasionally.

2. Preheat broiler. Brush chops lightly on both sides with remaining 1 tablespoon honey; sprinkle with salt and pepper. Broil chops until cooked to desired doneness, about 5 minutes per side for medium-rare. Be careful not to overcook your little chops.

3. Transfer lamb to each plate (two per plate for main course, one per plate for starter course); spoon salsa on top, garnish with mint, and serve.

Happy New Year!