Read Fifty Shades of Chicken: A Parody in a Cookbook Online
Authors: F.L. Fowler
Fifty Shades of Chicken: A Parody in a Cookbook (14 page)
They have deep, brown marks left by the trussing twine, where Blades forgot to cover them. I can’t believe he’s left these marks on me. The ham grows suspicious.
“What happened to you? What the hell is that deviant doing to you?”
Man, if she only knew.
Oh, he just porked me with a Spanish sausage, bound me up with twine, and roasted me silly. And that’s not to mention the black iron prong he put up my orifice.
I could feed her some cock-and-bull story about food handling and safety precautions. But I can’t possibly tell her about the chorizo—she’d freak.
Instead I try the patented Shifty distraction trick.
“I have news. We’re coming out with a cookbook.”
“What?” She’s blown away. “When does it come out? That’s fantastic!”
Whew, it worked
.
“Thanksgiving!” My voice wobbles with excitement.
“Oh, Chicken, I couldn’t be happier for you. But seriously, you’d better get rid of those marks before you pose for the pictures.”
Pictures? Holy crap.
SERVES 4
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
½ pound fresh chorizo sausage
½ cup finely chopped onion
1 cup day-old bread, torn into pieces
1 (3½- to 4-pound) chicken, patted dry with paper towels
1½ teaspoons coarse kosher salt
1½ teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
1
Warm 1 tablespoon of the oil in a large skillet until shimmering. Using your hands, firmly squeeze the casing of the sausage, letting the fresh meat spill into the pan (discard casing). Add the chopped onion. Cook, breaking up the meat with a fork, until it is golden brown and the onions are tender, about 7 minutes. Toss in the torn bread pieces, making sure they are evenly coated with the spicy juiciness.
2
Preheat the oven to 400° F. Pat the chicken very dry, including the cavity. Rub the skin with the remaining 1 tablespoon oil. Season the chicken inside and out with the salt and pepper. Take a generous handful of the chorizo mixture and plunge it deep into the cavity. Pack the cavity loosely; you want it to feel full but not overwhelmed. Reserve any remaining stuffing to bake alongside in a ramekin.
3
Cut two generous lengths of kitchen twine. With the first, lash together the legs at the ankles, crossing the twine several times before securing with a double knot. Secure the second around the length of the chicken’s body, pinning its wings closely to its sides. You don’t want it to move at all or leak any stuffing.
4
Place the chicken on its back on a rack set over a rimmed baking sheet. Roast until the thigh juices run clear and the skin is crisp and golden, about 45 minutes to 1 hour. Cover with foil and let rest for 15 minutes before carving.
LEARNING THE ROPES
If you can’t find chorizo, a fresh, spicy uncured sausage, a hot Italian sausage will do the job just as well. The hotter, the better.
crunchy chicken parmesan croquettes
Croquettes
B
lades comes into the kitchen with a guy in a pale brown shirt, stone chinos, and small hoops in each of his large ears. He’s long and slim, with cavernous dark eyes. His hair is scruffy and looks oddly unkempt, and he has a desperate, hungry look.
It’s our editor, Wiley.
“So this is the bird?” His eyes seem to bulge from their sockets.
Blades tenses. “Yes, this is my chicken.” His voice makes it clear who rules this roost.
Wiley cocks his head to either side in a disturbingly familiar way. “I’d like to take a few photos while I’m here. Purely for reference, of course.”
Blades’s expression darkens momentarily.
“Photos,” he mumbles. “Well, we’ll have to see about that.”
The idea of being photographed makes me incredibly nervous. Illustrations maybe. I had imagined diagrams. But photos? Jeez, I hope this recipe doesn’t make my butt look big.
Blades ushers Wiley out and returns with a sigh of relief.
“Well, Mr. Blades, are we alone?” I coo.
“I believe you are entirely defenseless, Miss Hen.”
I find myself once again stretched out on the cool granite of his sleek countertop.
I’ve never seen anyone move a knife so fast and sure. He passes it so smoothly into me, I hardly know it’s happened until I fall apart in a crisp heap. I groan, reveling in the sensation as he corrals me with a deft nudge of the tip of his knife. He’s earning his nickname tonight.
MAKES ABOUT 1½ DOZEN CROQUETTES
2½ cups shredded cooked chicken
¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 small onion, finely chopped
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
Pinch of cayenne pepper
¼ cup all-purpose flour
1 cup whole milk
¼ teaspoon coarse kosher salt, plus more as needed
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 large eggs
¾ cup plain bread crumbs
⅓ cup grated Parmesan cheese, plus more for serving
¼ cup finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley
Safflower or canola oil, for frying
Lemon wedges, for serving
1
Using a steady knife and a disciplined hand, finely chop the chicken meat (you can also pulse it in the food processor until minced).
2
Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the onion and cook until softened, about 5 minutes. Stir in the garlic, nutmeg, and cayenne. Cook for 1 minute. Stir in the flour, then gradually whisk in the milk; season it with salt and pepper. Simmer for 3 minutes, stirring occasionally, or until the mixture is thick and bubbly. Scrape the mixture into a bowl and fold in the chicken; let cool. Taste and add more salt if needed. Cover and refrigerate until chilled, at least 1 hour.
3
Using moist hands, form the mixture into 18 equal-sized egg-shaped croquettes (each about 2½ inches across).
4
In a wide, shallow bowl, beat the eggs with 3 table-spoons water. In a separate dish, combine the bread crumbs, cheese, and parsley. Dip each croquette in the egg mixture, then coat with bread crumbs and transfer to a platter.
5
Fill a small pot halfway with oil and heat to 365°F. Fry the croquettes in batches, turning twice, until golden brown, about 3 minutes. Transfer to a paper towel–lined plate to drain. Serve immediately, with lemon wedges and more grated cheese on top.
Under the Covers
W
iley is staring hungrily at my legs. He reaches out a tentative hand. Blades sets his mouth in a hard line. “Wiley …” he says menacingly.
Wiley backs off in dismay. “Excuse me. I didn’t mean …”
Blades carries me over to the other counter.
“I don’t like you exposing so much flesh on camera,” he hisses under his breath to me. “That’s a hard limit for me.”
Clearly he hasn’t grasped the whole idea of food photography.
“How do you expect to get pictures for our cookbook?” I ask. “I’ll have to show myself. Legs. Breast. The whole enchilada.”
“Perhaps, Miss Hen,” he says dryly. He turns around and stalks off to the pantry.
That’s it?
My Shifty doesn’t usually give up so easily. Wiley waits quietly.
A few minutes later Blades comes back carrying a ball of dough—and a rolling pin.
Oh my, what’s he going to do with that?
He uses it to roll out the dough.
Oh
. I’m a little disappointed.
He places me in a deep, round baking dish. So far so good. He takes strips of dough and lays one gently across me. Then another, and another.
Holy fuck.
He’s hooding me with crust. I see him smirk just before he covers me over completely. The bastard.
“Now you may shoot the bird,” he says. I hear Wiley start to click away.
Inside the solid crust I’m steaming up.
SERVES 6 TO 8
FOR THE CRUST
10 tablespoons unsalted butter, ice cold
1⅓ cups all-purpose flour
¼ teaspoon fine sea salt
1 to 3 tablespoons ice-cold water, as needed
FOR THE FILLING
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 medium leeks, rinsed and thinly sliced
2 medium potatoes, peeled and diced
1 small turnip, peeled and diced
1 carrot, peeled and diced
1 celery stalk, peeled and diced small
1 garlic clove, chopped
½ teaspoon dried thyme
¼ cup all-purpose flour
2 cups unsalted chicken broth
½ cup heavy cream, plus more as needed
¾ teaspoon coarse kosher salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 cups shredded cooked chicken
½ cup fresh or frozen peas
1
To make the crust, slice the butter into cold cubes. Toss together the flour and the salt in a large bowl. Work the butter into the flour until the mixture forms pea-size crumbs. Slowly dribble in the water until the dough just combines together. Wrap tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 1 hour.
2
To make the filling: Melt the butter in a large skillet over medium heat until it is sizzling. Add the leeks, potatoes, turnip, carrot, and celery. Cook, stirring often, until the vegetables are slightly caramelized, 7 to 10 minutes. Stir in the garlic and thyme; cook for 1 minute. Toss in the flour and stir vigorously to coat the mixture with the flour; let it cook for 1 minute. Stirring constantly, pour in the broth in a slow, steady stream, then do the same with the cream. The sauce should come together smoothly. Season it with salt and pepper. After the mixture has bubbled and thickened for a few minutes, stir in the chicken and peas. Remove the pan from the heat and let it cool completely.
3
Preheat the oven to 375°F. Spoon the filling into a 9-inch deep-dish pie plate or a 2-quart soufflé dish.
4
To prepare for pie bondage, lightly dust a large work surface with flour. Roll the crust out to a 10-inch circle. Using a sharp knife or pastry wheel, slice the crust into ½-inch strips. Arrange the strips over the chicken in a tight, restraining, crisscross pattern, covering up all the chicken underneath. Brush the top lightly with cream. Bake until the crust is golden and the filling is hot and bubbly, about 45 minutes. Let cool slightly before serving.
LEARNING THE ROPES
If you aren’t comfortable with crust bondage, skip it; instead, arrange the crust on top of the pie. Tuck the edges into the side of the pan and slash the center to allow steam to escape. Novices can purchase a prepared pie crust instead of making their own.
Chicken
B
lack, Black!” I whimper. “Please.”
The door of the Wolf flies open and he pulls me out, the roasting pan cradled in his oven mitts.
“No,” he gasps. “You can’t be overcooked. What have I done?” He scrambles for a meat thermometer.
I begin to sob uncontrollably. No, I’m not overdone, but I was beginning to fall apart. I had to use the safeword.
It started in the usual way, with me facedown on a rack. He slipped a lemon inside of me, and another, then some garlic and herbs, filling me over and over. Then he cooked me, low and slow. At first it was sweet and warm and I built slowly. My flesh softened and practically separated from my bones. But he wouldn’t bring me to doneness. Hour after hour, for how long? How many hours would he keep this up? Was he angry because of the photos? This wasn’t cooking, it was revenge. Finally I broke.
“Why are you taking so long?” I ask plaintively.
“Chicken, slow roasting is a standard technique in … I just had to …” He stills and hangs his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.