The Unreal Meal

The smell of NYC in the summer is something that probably makes a lot of people cringe. After all, with all the people and all the heat and humidity, it can be an interesting olfactory experience. Every summer, though, there’s something that I always forget, and that’s the sweet fragrance of honeysuckle that briefly wafts through the city. It’s so fleeting that somehow it has come and gone before I really have a chance to stop and take note. Every year when it hits for a few days in mid-to-late June, I stop and breathe deeply and think about what a glorious gift life is and all that it encompasses.

There’s a powerful thing about scent that can transport us to different places and times in our lives. For instance, there’s something about flowers that always makes me feel like I’m home. Give me a noseful of peonies or lilacs or honeysuckle, and somehow I’m sitting in my bedroom where I grew up in Ohio, windows wide open in the spring and summer, without a care in the world. It’s funny how comforting those smells are.

Many cooks and eaters alike will say the same thing about food. I suppose that’s part of the whole notion of “comfort food,” actually. For me, my two strongest food memories are:

1. Perfectly pink roast beef studded with slivered garlic and served with soft, fluffy mashed potatoes. Just thinking about it, I can picture our old 60s era brown electric stove and the way that roasting smell would creep into the living room or upstairs to find me. As a random aside, when I was a little girl, I called it tukaluka, for reasons that I don’t actually know at the moment — I’ll have to ask my mom about that.
2. Juicy pork chops sprinkled with salt and pepper, pan-seared to make them a little crispy on the outside, and then finished in the oven and finally served with perfectly buttered egg noodles.  I tried being a vegetarian when I was 16, and every time I’d go to my dad’s, he’d make pork chops for himself for dinner. After about four months of this, I couldn’t stand how good it smelled anymore, and I broke down and devoured those chops as though I’d never eaten before. I’ve never looked back. Oh pig, how delicious and wonderful you are!

I’ve heard or read of other cooks when they talk about about things like beef bourguignon, fish stew, osso bucco, pasta carbonara or a perfect bolognese sauce.  Somehow they’re always simple, homey dishes.  I’m not a critic of haute cuisine in any way, but you don’t generally see someone talk about those types of dishes with that faraway look that you get when someone’s describing a parent’s or grandparent’s perfect lasagna or roast chicken.

For years, roast chicken had little real appeal for me.  It’s not that I had anything against it, I just never really sought it out.  We ate plenty of chicken when I was growing up, generally breasts roasted in the oven, or my mom would sometimes grab a cooked rotisserie chicken from the local supermarket because it was fast and easy and tasty enough, but I never really remember whole roasted chickens — probably because I was such a picky eater that I refused anything that remotely resembled dark meat or chicken skin (I’ve thankfully grown out of that).

Recently, I’ve started roasting chickens at home, and I’m starting to understand how it can be one of those meals that screams home and comfort food for so many people.  This past weekend, I offered my services to my favorite aunt (who’d be my favorite even if I had ten thousand aunts instead of just the one, by the way) who has been dealing with some health issues and had surgery a couple weeks ago.  She was heading home (much improved, I gleefully add!), needed some grocery shopping done (someday ask me about how I fell down the steps in Citarella — all in the name of good food and happy relatives!), and had a request for a roast chicken dinner.  I happily obliged, and successfully roasted two small birds (about 3# each) on a roasting pan in a tiny little DeLonghi countertop oven.  Before long, their entire apartment smelled like delicious roasty toasty chicken, and I knew, in a way that I haven’t really before, what a perfect meal

After dinner, Alex and I said our goodbyes and drove home, sated and with my mind filled with the lingering scent memory of crispy chicken skin and tarragon.  And that’s when mother nature snuck in and hit me with the honeysuckle.  Life — it smells damn good, that’s all I know.  I’m off for a long weekend here, but before I go, I had to share the simplest chicken recipe I know.  Sometimes the simplest ways are the best.

My Mom’s, My Aunt’s, and My Nanna’s Roast Chicken

1 3-4 lb. (sometimes called a broiler-fryer) chicken
6 sprigs tarragon plus
1 tablespoon finely chopped tarragon
coarse salt
freshly ground black pepper
1 can artichoke hearts in water (not in oil), juices reserved

Preheat the oven to 350°.

Clean the giblets (the neck, liver, etc. that is generally stored in the body of the bird when you buy it) out of the inside, and very very liberally coat the outside of the skin with coarse salt, and season with pepper.  Lift the skin of the breast, being careful not to tear it, so that it separates a bit from the flesh, and stuff a few sprigs of tarragon under each side.  Sprinkle the rest of the tarragon on top of the bird.  Lay the bird in a pan that is deep enough to hold a little liquid, and of course to hold the chicken.

Open the can of artichoke hearts, stuff them in the cavity of the chicken, and pour the remaining juice over top of the chicken into the bottom of the pan.

Roast at 350° for 2 to 2 1/2 hours.  The artichokes in the cavity should be at 165°, as should the temperature of the chicken when read in the fattest part of the thigh (not touching bone).  Let the chicken rest for about ten minutes before carving.

Serve with the artichoke hearts and some white rice, if you choose.  One chicken will serve about 4 people.