Emeril said it was ‘Easy.’ 15 minutes prep time. 15 minutes inactive prep time.
That inactive prep time must have been the 15 minutes that I used to read 8 emails and respond to 3, the rest of the two or so hours, I was in the kitchen, trying to figure out how to prepare the meal without the entire thing bursting into flames.
The recipe looked easy, deceptively so. There was minor cutting and chopping, and probably a tad too much garlic, but when I discovered that I didn’t actually have the oven turned on for the first 20 minutes (when I thought I was roasting the garlic), I felt that slightly panicky feeling that perhaps I was in over my head.
With apologies to vegans and vegetarians (look away), I had a lovely free range, organic chicken, which I rinsed and seasoned and drizzled and, wait a minute, you want me to rub the chicken inside and out AFTER you’ve already told me to place the lemon rinds and bay leaves inside? (And, okay, in my over-zealous state I had tied the legs together, probably unnecessary, but I was just so thrilled to have found some string).
Right around this point I decided to have a Cosmopolitan--heavy on the vodka, light on the lime, Cointreau, and cranberry juice.
I was already running late and I could tell I had a humdinger of a headache building. Maybe the Cosmo would take the edge off.
I got everything in the oven and thought I could go tend to other matters—45 minutes of yoga, a shower, work on a newsletter. I had only just begun tracking down some info for the newsletter when the smoke alarm went off.
I flipped on the exhaust fan, opened the front door, and removed a rack in the oven to cook the meal on the lower rack. Then I fixed myself another drink.
The meal turned out well. I’m always pleased if something I prepare is edible, so the bar isn’t set very high. My husband said it was good; it tasted just like a rotisserie chicken. So I was thinking, ‘why bother?’
The meal was A LOT of work, but I think that may have been due to my inexperience. The veggies were a little on the salty side and overcooked and that seemed like a waste. Should I have been basting the bird? The gravy never did reduce to a sauce and my husband didn’t touch it, as if fearing the fat content or the prospect of encountering even more garlic.
Would I prepare this meal again? Maybe, but probably not.
Labels: Roasted