We have recently moved into a small apartment building in the downtown of a very small town. We have abandoned our formerly louche suburban ways and are resolutely seeking to become urban animals. While happy to be rid of some tasks – mowing the lawn and calling the calling the plumber ourselves, we are still experiencing a little settling in period.
Living in an apartment building is kind of like dorm living again. We cannot grill on the balcony. On the other hand, there is no gang bathroom. But there is staircase etiquette, and learning how loudly we can play music.
It is vaguely surreal, mostly because we have obviously woken up in a badly written sitcom. Just like on The Big Bang Theory, the elevator is perpetually out of order. Our wacky, busy body next-door neighbor tells me there are 21 steps. I haven’t counted, yet. So all the groceries need to be hauled upstairs in re-useable shopping bags – now I have to weigh the logistical benefits of buying heavy one-get-one-free cantaloupes.
The wacky, busy body neighbor has super-power hearing; she springs out of her apartment door when we are tippy toeing past. She also button holes us by the front door, in the lobby, and out by the car. She invited us to dinner once because she had bought 25 pounds of shrimp. Luckily, we had other plans. I can only imagine how one person can possibly consume 25 pounds of shrimp.
The other folks in the building are an interesting assortment. Across the hall is the plucky young single mother, with a vocal two year-old. We can keep track of their comings and goings by the Doppler effect of Emily’s protests. The other apartment is empty, though realtors stomp through a few times a week. We live above a dress shop where everyone seems to have a hilarious time, all day long. They clear out at 5. And the winsome tyke and her mother live over a fudge shop – whose door I have only darkened once, just to be polite. The temptation is fierce!
Some people collect shoes. Some people amass handbags. Some people hoard sterling silver. Here, on our small scale cooking program, I like roast chicken recipes. There is nothing I like better than chicken and rice and a little salad, adding my requisite cheap plonk and some candles. Perfection! So I will risk boring you again with my latest find from Mark Bittman.
Simplest Roast Chicken
Yield 4 servings
Time 50 to 60 minutes
Ingredients
• 1 whole chicken, 3 to 4 pounds, trimmed of excess fat
• 3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Method
• 1. Put a cast-iron skillet on a low rack in the oven and heat the oven to 500 degrees. Rub the chicken all over with the oil and sprinkle it generously with salt and pepper.
• 2. When the oven and skillet are hot, carefully put the chicken in the skillet, breast side up. Roast for 15 minutes, then turn the oven temperature down to 350 degrees. Continue to roast until the bird is golden brown and an instant-read thermometer inserted into the meaty part of the thigh reads 155 to 165 degrees.
• 3. Tip the pan to let the juices flow from the chicken’s cavity into the pan. Transfer the chicken to a platter and let it rest for at least 5 minutes. Carve and serve.
(I left the chicken in the 350°F oven for about 45 minutes. But I like my chicken a little dry. The same way I enjoy a really carbonized hockey puck of a grilled hamburger. Cue the studio canned applause!)
https://www.nytimes.com/video/dining/1247465444367/roasted-chicken.html
https://dinersjournal.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/09/08/the-minimalist-simplest-roast-chicken/?_r=0
The moment we came to endear ourselves to our new neighbors was about 10 minutes into the 500°F part of the cooking, when the air in the kitchen was beginning to get a little bit hazy. I opened the oven door to check on our incendiary dinner device. A billowing cloud of olive oil smoke poured out of the oven and instantly set off the bright new sparkly smoke alarm. Whoops! Luckily Rob Petrie was quickly roused from his easy chair, neatly avoided the ottoman, and disarmed the alarm. I didn’t hear any laugh track erupting from next door. I hope Mrs. Kravitz wasn’t taking a nap.
And I hope she is ready to put up with a winter of our smoke alarm chicken content, because it was a damn fine roast chicken, and it has found a place on our list of our favorite easy peasy recipes.
We even have the requisite cute sitcom pet. Since we cannot let Luke the wonder dog out the back door for a quick break any more – we have to trot him off to a stand of weeds in the parking lot or don raincoats and wellies and do the full circuit in the pouring rain. I am hoping to bump into someone soon and gain a likeable, yet flawed, kooky best friend. And if I see any Martian uncles or talking horses along the way I will be sure to tell you about it.
“I think every woman should have a blowtorch.”
― Julia Child
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