FoodSexLit

So going to the grocery store is always a treat. I just get excited over the beautiful produce: like the gorgeous organic heirloom beans with the great names– Kentucky Wonder, Dragon Beans . . .

And of course, the creatively named “yellow” and “purple” beans (their lack of innovation in terms of a title did not stop me from buying them, of course.)

Readers of the blog will know I like catchy names: foodfucking. FoodGasm. FoodSex. A Shakespearience.

But today, when I went to the West Seattle Metropolitan Market to buy foodstuffs for my mother’s birthday dinner– today we reached a whole new level of naming:

Butchcocking. Try it out in your mouth. See how it feels. It’s fun to say, eh?

Here’s the story:

Usually for my mother’s birthday I like to try new recipes: there is a chicken breast recipe with sautéed peaches I’ve been dying to experiment with.

But my mother had a marjoram plant in her garden that had somehow remained unharvested (read “unmolested”– my mother is a vigorous harvester) summer, and there was a row full of gorgeous tomatoes ripening on the kitchen window sill.

So I decided to repeat a menu I did for her birthday a few years ago– an heirloom tomato risotto with roasted ricotta and fresh basil, paired with a barbecued chicken marinated in lemon and olive oil and stuffed with lemons and fresh marjoram.

Oh, and the naughty figs for an appetizer. My sister Lizzy made those . . . I always forget the rosemary. She did not, however, and you shouldn’t either. The piney tang of the rosemary really heightens the creaminess of the goat cheese and the sweetness of the fruit. Plus, those little bundles of decadence are wrapped in the Italian equivalent of bacon– what’s not to like?

Readers of the blog will know that I am a big fan of Jamie Oliver, and his recipe for the risotto results in a dish that looks like it is studded with precious jewels. Perfect for a birthday dinner if you love your mother. She will rave about it for years afterward.

And the chicken . . . Readers of the blog will also know that after my lobster disaster, if Jamie says to ask your butcher or fishmonger to do something, I will. I listen.

So I went to the butcher this morning and asked the very tall, handsome man if he would butterfly a chicken for me.

“Butterfly?” he asked, and while of course he knew what that was, and was just exercising his superior butcher skill to see if that’s what I really wanted (I’m sure people ask for all kinds of things they don’t really need/want) I had to just prattle on.

“Jamie Oliver calls it spatch-cocking,” I said. Ok. I admit it. I just like to say that word. The British are so great with their new for things. In London, I loved wandering around looking at all the great street names.

“Spatch-cocking?” my butcher asked. And then he said, “You must be a teacher.”

How did he know?

At any rate, when he handed me my split chicken, he asked, “what is it you said they call it in England? Butch-cocking?”

And then a few minutes later, Lizzy (who was with me) was like, “Do they really call it butchcocking?”

And so I had to clarify for both of them that butterflying a chicken is not called “butchcocking” in England.

Although it’s kind of catchy, hey? Sounds like something someone into food-fucking would call splitting a chicken in half so you can grill/broil it faster than roasting. Butchcocking sounds fun and kind of dirty– and not just for lesbians.

So if you have your butcher butchcock a chicken for you (so much more sanitary to have the butcher do it, the lady at the checkout and I agreed. They have sharper knives (not to mention better knife skills) and you don’t have to mess up your kitchen) here is what I suggest you do to it:

Slice a lemon and slip the pieces under the skin, between the skin and the breast. I gave the same treatment to the legs.  Then stuff sprigs of majoram, oregano, or thyme under there too. I used a combination of the three from my mom’s kitchen garden.  Squeeze another lemon (or two, if you’ve just gone to Costco and you have a plethora of lemons) over the chicken.

Pour some olive oil on your butchcocked chicken (“butchcock” is WAY more fun to say than “spatchcock”) and rub that into the skin and the flesh.  Add salt and pepper. Please use kosher salt and fresh-cracked pepper. Ok? And if you don’t, and your dish sucks, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Jamie Oliver has a slightly different recipe than my poor excuse above, so read his too. My feelings won’t be hurt. Jamie’s method has you cook the chicken in a grillpan.

I barbecued mine– without a backbone, my butchcocked chicken was a little tricky to flip, but sticky and moist and smoky and herby and lemony.

I paired it with spinach sautéed in butter and cinnamon (another Jamie Recipe) and I roasted the Kentucky Wonder, Dragon, Purple, and Yellow beans at 450 degrees for a few minutes (after dousing them in olive oil, kosher salt, and fresh-cracked pepper.). This treatment, incidentally, works for any vegetable, including any vegetables the guy you are dating says he hates and please don’t tell his mother that he ate them when you made them. Oh, if I had a nickel for every man who has said THAT to me.

My mom made her own cake– a lemon cake from an old recipe in The Silver Palate. I felt a little bit bad that my mother had to make her own cake, but it was delicious, and besides, I was worn out from all that butchcocking.