by F. L. Fowler
Copyright © 2012 by FL Fowler
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Clarkson Potter/Publishers,
an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random
House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
www.clarksonpotter.com
CLARKSON POTTER is a trademark and POTTER with colophon
is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
eISBN: 978-0-385-34523-1
Design by Stephanie Cluckwork
Photographs by John von Pamer
Cover photography by John von Pamer
v3.1
For Snowqueens Icedragon
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
INTRODUCTION
one
The Novice Bird
two
Falling to Pieces
Chicken Parts and Bits
three
Birds Gone Wild
Advanced Techniques
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
About the Author
INDEX
INTRODUCTION
How have I gotten myself into this? I glance around the spotless, meticulously organized kitchen: trussing twine, skewers, mallets—is that a cleaver? Holy crap.
I don’t even fit in. I share a shelf in the fridge with a ham so enormous I have to huddle up against the door, even though it’s a double-wide Sub-Zero. The other shelves are stuffed with bags of leafy greens, neatly wrapped paper parcels of what might be fish or fancy cheese, and uniform rows of carefully labeled condiment jars. Down in a crisper all by itself is a radish, aloof and flaunting its freshness. Then there’s me, mundane, scrawny, and shrink-wrapped.
I’m closest with the enormous ham, even though she’s so much cooler than I am. She hogs the shelf, but she’s my nearest, dearest friend. She’s piquant, smoky, salty, pigheaded, bodacious, and always seems to know what’s cooking. She’ll make an exceptional holiday dinner.
SUDDENLY THE FRIDGE DOOR I’m resting on swings open, and I find myself rolling off the shelf and falling toward the kitchen floor. Crap. My plastic wrapper bursts as I land, and my giblet bag slides halfway out. Double crap. Damn my cheap packaging.
Instantly I feel hands on me, lifting me carefully from the tiles. Long, powerful fingers cradle me from underneath and expertly tuck my giblets back in place. Holy cow. Something clenches deep inside me.
My rescuer lays me gently on a countertop. He’s wearing jeans and a clean white apron. He’s young and handsome, with a rakish mop of hair. He has muscled arms and clearly works out. But it’s his hands that have me mesmerized. They’re smooth, pale, perfectly manicured, and beyond competent.
The kitchen is all sleek white tile, blonde wood, and black granite. There’s no clutter on the shiny counters and the ceramic backsplash is bare, except for an incredibly long magnetic knife rack. It’s filled with gray steel blades of all kinds—fat, thin, long, short, curved, and straight, and all of them obviously sharp as hell. Displayed together, they are breathtaking. He notices my attention fixed on them.
“You like my collection?” he asks coolly.
“Extraordinary. Like an artist’s tools,” I say slowly. He cocks his head to one side, and then to the other. He looks at me in a way that sears my gizzard.
“I couldn’t agree more,” he replies, his voice suddenly soft, and for some reason I find myself blushing.
“There m-must be four dozen knives up there,” I stammer. I’m hypnotized by their gleaming edges and his hands at the same time.
“Fifty blades, to be precise,” he intones. “This kitchen is my domain. I need to have complete control when I prep.”
Holy shit. The way he says it shakes my liver out of place again. Mr. Blades can prep me any time.
“I can imagine,” I manage to say.
“It’s all about finesse, Miss Hen.” Whoa, he keeps shifting direction. He’s so weirdly formal. Who calls a chicken “Miss Hen”? But then nobody’s ever really taken the time to talk to me before.
“I have enormous respect for food,” he continues. “To derive deep satisfaction from the mundane: tournéing a radish, cutting a potato, portioning a syllabub. These form the foundation of what I do.”
“Raising the mundane to the extraordinary,” I say, mesmerized. I really shouldn’t look at his hands, it’s unsettling.
He cocks his head and gazes at me. I blush again under the burning force of that stare. He’s cooking me with his eyes. How does he do that?
His words continue to echo in the secret darkness of my soul. “It’s all about finesse.” Chickens don’t do finesse, my subconscious sneers at me. I flush at my foolish, inward thoughts. But a girl can dream, can’t she?
He’s clearly not into me. I wait quietly on the counter and watch his skillful, knowing hands work. Desire pools way down in my cavity and in spite of myself I start to daydream while he preps a radish.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Penny for your thoughts, Miss Hen?” He appears focused on his task, but there’s a sly glint in his eye.
I flush. Oh, I was just imagining your hands traveling up my thighs and your teeth nibbling my breast.
“You seem to have a lot of little bowls,” I say as calmly as possible.
He has arranged a dozen tiny ramekins in an orderly row on the counter. He fills each of them with a spice, an herb, or a chopped ingredient carefully portioned from a measuring spoon.
“You’re a very sharp-eyed chicken,” he says, and that look returns. “I exercise perfect control over everything that happens in this kitchen. I require exactitude from my ingredients.”
What a control freak. And arrogant to boot. But the apron he’s wearing hangs off his hips in a way that turns my bones to jelly.
“So, what are you whipping up there?” I ask hopefully.
“Well, what I’m ‘whipping up,’ as you put it, is a salade composé,” he says without a trace of humor in his smile. “I create experiences. It’s my belief that a meal can be a transcendent experience, like a Bach concerto. It’s all about finesse. I know what makes ingredients tick. I find the best ones, and then take them beyond themselves. The bottom line is that it always comes down to ingredients that know what I want.” He stares at me intently.
Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? He’s constantly shifting. One minute he’s all foxy looks and hungry smiles, the next he’s curt and sharp. His fridge is packed with exotic foods, but he seems to have eyes only for the radish. Could it be?
“Are you a vegetarian?” I blurt before I can stop myself.
He draws a sharp breath. I am mortified beyond words. Double crap. Why can’t I keep my head on for once? My agonized subconscious is begging me on bended knee to stop gabbling.
“No, Chicken, I’m not.” He cocks his head to one side and stares coolly at me. He is not amused. I cringe. I feel the blood drain from my entire body.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer, “it just popped out.”
A timer goes off, saving my skin.
“You know, I could find a use for you in this menu,” he says suddenly. “The preparations would be minimal enough for a novice, with relatively uncomplicated flavor profiles.”
Is he considering me for an entrée?
“Oh, thank you, but I don’t think I’m up to scratch.”
“Why not?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I’m underweight, graceless, and wrapped in cheap
plastic.
“Not to me. I suspect you have great potential. You seem so versatile.” His gaze is intense, and I feel a strange pull low down in my body.
“I appreciate the offer,” I stammer. “I really do. But I don’t believe I’m prepared for the position.”
He sets his mouth in a hard line for a moment, then picks me up in his hand. He adjusts my wrapper and helps me back into the Sub-Zero.
“Very well, Miss Hen. Until we meet again.”
I feel a strange charge come through his fingertips before he sets me down. Must be static electricity. I believe I’ll never live down the “vegetarian” question. But I have a thrilling, dark intuition that those hands aren’t done with me.
Plain Vanilla Chicken
Popped-Cherry Pullet
Extra-Virgin Breasts
Chicken with a Lardon
Please Don’t Stop Chicken
Jerked-Around Chicken
Spicy Fowl
Learning to Truss You
Holy Mole Chicken
Hot Rubbed Hen
Mustard-Spanked Chicken
Totally Fried Chicken
Cream-Slicked Chick
Chile-Lashed Fricassee
Pulled Pullet
Basted Bird
Cock au Vin
roast chicken with brandy-vanilla butter
Plain Vanilla Chicken
The brandy is definitely not a good idea. But it’s time to celebrate—here’s to flying the coop, to a new life in the big world! I want to shake my tail.
Before I know it, there he is, my Mr. Blades. Somehow he always shows up when I’m feeling vulnerable and raw.
He takes me from the fridge and lays me gently on my back on a platter. His fingers are so strong and commanding, and the alcohol is making me cocky.
“Does this mean you’re about to make dinner with me?” I blurt.
His expression is hooded. “No, Chicken. First of all, I don’t make dinner, I cook … hard,” he says. “Second, we need to look at some recipes together. Third, you’ve had too much brandy and you need a rinse.”
Recipes? Me, in a recipe? I hear my subconscious squawking a warning from somewhere far across a brandied mist.
Blades holds me under the faucet. The touch of his hands and the flowing water make my tail convulse deliciously. The tension grows unbearable. I feel precarious, as if I were about to fall for him again. A cluck of longing emerges from deep inside me.
Suddenly we can’t help ourselves, and his long-fingered hands are all over me. “I want to cook you,” he whispers. “Whole.” Oh my. I’m heating from the inside out.
He reaches over me to open a colossal cabinet full of spice jars. “Tell me, how do you want it? You choose.”
“Want it?” I say, gaping. I’m a roaster. What should I want besides a little salt and pepper?
“Yes—you know, spices, method. What recipe?”
Now I finally get it. I feel like such an idiot. He wants to flavor me.
I try to hide my disappointment. “I’ve never been seasoned,” I mumble despondently. “Or even, um, prepped.”
His mouth presses into a hard line and I can feel his shock and exasperation.
“Never?” he whispers.
“Not like this,” I confess.
“No one’s ever even crisped you?”
“No … and I’m not sure I’m ready for the spicy stuff.” The sprawling spice cabinet stands wide open like a kinky taunt. I’m practically pink with embarrassment.
My unconscious squawks with indignation. Why should I be ashamed? I may be a tipsy chicken, but I’m a free-range organic tipsy chicken with an unexpired sell-by date. I shouldn’t need spicy additives.
For the first time he appears to be at a total loss. He drums his fingers on the cutting board. Finally he seems to reach a decision.
“Into the bowl,” he commands, ripping a sheet from a packet of foil. “I don’t do vanilla. I’ve never done vanilla. But tonight we’re doing vanilla.”
roast chicken with brandy-vanilla butter
SERVES 4
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, very soft
1 tablespoon brandy
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1½ teaspoons sugar
1½ teaspoons coarse kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 (3½- to 4-pound) chicken, patted dry with paper towels
1 Preheat the oven to 400°F. In a medium bowl, whisk together the butter, brandy, vanilla, sugar, ½ teaspoon salt, and ½ teaspoon black pepper until it forms a smooth, supple spread (at first it will seem to curdle, but continue beating until it submits).
2 Season the chicken, including the cavity, with the remaining 1 teaspoon salt and ½ teaspoon pepper.
3 Fill your hand with butter and gently slide your fingers beneath the skin of the breast, slathering butter on the flesh as you go. Work your way down to the thighs. Repeat until you have used all of the butter.
4 Place the chicken on a rack set over a rimmed baking sheet. Roast until the thigh juices run clear when pierced with the tip of a knife and the skin is crisp and golden, about 1 hour and 15 minutes. Let rest for 10 minutes before carving.
roasted chicken with cherries and herbs
Popped-Cherry Pullet
Vanilla’s all right once or twice, but we can’t keep that up,” he says.
My subconscious hides her eyes. He’s way out of my league. A man like him could never get excited about chicken. How could I think I might ever be what he craves? What does a man like him crave?
He fixes me suddenly with a predatory stare. “We’re going to remedy this situation right now.”
“What situation?” I ask, alarmed.
“Your situation. You’re utterly unseasoned. I’m contemplating haute cuisine with you, when you’ve never been paired with anything, it seems.” He cocks his head to the side.
Paired? My inner goddess pulls her head from under her wing.
“I’m going to make dinner with you right now. We’ll begin with something sweet, soft, and juicy.”
Holy shit.
“I thought you didn’t make dinner,” I say, my heart pounding. “I thought you just cooked, um, hard.”
I hear his stomach growl deeply, the effects of which travel all the way to my tail at the base of my cavity—down there.
“Don’t think I’m getting all hearts and flowers. This is a step in a process. A process that I think will make a superb finish. I hope you’ll think so, too.”
I cluck low with anticipation.
His stomach growls again. “Chicken, will you please stop clucking? It’s very … distracting.”
He lays me face down and starts to drizzle my back and thighs with oil.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he says gently.
“Yes,” I beg. “Oh, yes.”
“I’m going to cook you now, Miss Hen,” he mutters as he opens the door of the oven. He slides me into the oven.
Beneath me is a bed of wet, dark, pitted cherries. The dry heat takes me into its sudden embrace, and my juices flow freely over the torn fruit.
I never thought it would feel like this. I never imagined it could be this good.
B’gaaaawk!
roasted chicken with cherries and herbs
SERVES 4
1 (3½- to 4-pound) chicken, patted dry with paper towels
1¾ teaspoons coarse kosher salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 small bunch thyme, rosemary, or sage
1 pound pitted sweet cherries
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Lemon wedges, for serving
1 Gently rub the naked chicken all over with 1½ teaspoons of the salt and the pepper, paying attention to the bird’s cavity and every crevice. Press the herb sprigs all over the flesh, including the cavity. Place in a bowl, cover, and let marinate expectantly in the fridge for at least 1 hour or up to overnight.
2 When the mood is right, preheat the oven to 400°F. Put the cherries in the bottom of a roasting pan and toss with a tablespoon of the olive oil and the remaining ¼ teaspoon salt.
3 Put a rack on top of the cherries and lay the chicken, breast down, on the rack (remove herbs on the outside of the bird before roasting; you can leave the herbs in the cavity where they are). Drizzle the back and thighs of the chicken with a tablespoon of oil. Roast for 40 minutes, then thrust a wooden spoon into the chicken’s nether parts and flip the bird so the breasts are up. Stir the cherries. Drizzle the breasts with the remaining tablespoon of oil and continue to roast until the chicken is juicy and golden and completely done, about 40 to 50 minutes longer. Let rest for 10 minutes. Serve with lemon wedges.
Extra-Virgin Breasts
Two blue eyes twinkle in the light of the open Sub-Zero.
It’s not Blades, it’s some other guy with an easygoing smile and a box of frozen Tater Tots.
“What do you mean? You have a ton of grub in here,” he calls behind him. “And I’m starving!”
“It’s not grub,” I hear Blades scold. “They’re my Ingredients. And you can’t have them. They’re mine, for my work.”
The sound of his voice makes me long to see those strong hands, to feel them on my breast. How does he do that?
“Whatevs, bro. I’m not into your fancy stuff anyway. Hey, what about the chicken? We could just throw it under the boiler. Looks tasty.”
“No,” Blades says, too quickly. “You can take the Christmas ham. Don’t touch the chicken.”
Before Blades even finishes the sentence, his brother fixes his famished gaze on the rosy ham. He grins and slices off a tender morsel, which seems to please the ham very much. Then he quickly slices off another chunk, plunging it into a jar of mustard before devouring it. The ham glows excitedly, in a way I’ve rarely seen. I know what that glow means.
Oh, Ham. She’s only just met him.
Meanwhile, Blades reaches into the fridge and gently helps me out. I thrill to the unexpected touch of his hands.
