Cook It In a Pan or a Pot

On Tuesday, September 15, 2009, Johanna was forced to work late due to forces beyond her control, like idiot coworkers.

Johanna is the one who usually makes dinner, and she didn’t know when she would be home, only that she would be hungry.

I, uh, don’t really cook all that much. This was a problem.

Nevertheless, I left work early to receive our grocery delivery (pointlessly, it turned out; the delivery arrived at the long end of the delivery window, and I’d have already been home either way). That mission accomplished, I was tasked with something bigger, something dare I say… Herculean.

I do dare. I’m wrong, but I dare.

She asked, innocently enough, if I would roast the chicken we received in the groceries using her instructions. Knowing the tremendous sacrifices (primarily of sanity) that she makes being around me, I agreed. After ensuring that I understood the directions, she left work and I set off.

To my great surprise, I roasted the fuck out of that chicken.

I salted the fowl beast inside and out, then rubbed it down with a mixture of olive oil, poultry seasoning, pepper, and garlic powder. I then halved a lemon and an onion, crushed two cloves of garlic, and (with rather more violence than necessary) stuffed the defeathered fiend with all but one half the lemon, which I squeezed over the top of the bird, letting the acidic juice burn the hell out of a cut on my hand that I’d until that moment forgotten about entirely.

I also rubbed some olive oil under the skin. That part was pretty gross, somewhat like giving a massage to a buttered corpse. Not that I’d know what that’s like.

But it was worth it.

I then put the bird in the baking dish and into the oven at 400 degrees. After 20 minutes, I flipped it onto its breast, and after another 20 minutes put it back tits-up for a last 20 minutes. During this time, Johanna came home, and it was she who took the chicken out and served it up.

Surprisingly, it was delicious. Even more surprisingly, I failed to give myself food poisoning. That part was almost a shame. I was kind of hoping for a reason to stay home from work, even if it meant excessive vomiting and dehydration. But hey, them’s the breaks.

The lesson here, of course, is nothing whatsoever. Surprise! I can follow instructions! But still, I roasted a chicken, a heretofore intimidating act, and it was deeeeeeeeeelightful. So for any chicken-roasting needs, well, you can do it yourself, because it’s a lot of work and I most likely don’t live with you. But if that last condition is not true in your specific case, I will do it again.