The First Pastured Chicken Comes Home to Roast

I’m not sure I have ever had quite this much information about something I am about to eat. It’s a new experience and I’m taking it day by day.

We get the word one evening via email, from Tricia, the assistant grower at Restoration Farm who is heading up the Hardscrabble Chicken Project. The chickens are ready! She writes:

“I am happy to report that we have not suffered any losses thus far and the chickens are healthy and plump! By the time they are processed they will have been moved daily on pasture for over a month and the pen will be ready for the second batch of birds currently occupying the brooder. So ready your recipes (and don't forget to make use of the herb garden and vegetables)! Thank you again for your support and I look forward to seeing you soon!”

Tricia has followed the principles for raising poultry used by Joel Salatin of Polyface Farm. The chickens are moved each day and dine on the fresh “salad bar” available in the pastures.

I happen to be at the farm shortly before the harvest. Usually, I approach the pen to say hello to “the girls.” From what I can see, they are looking very full-figured from their diet of foraged greens. But, this time I keep my distance. Is it guilt? Does this avoidance officially make me “chicken?” Probably. But, I’ve already decided I will leave the toughest part of the farm-to-table process to the professionals. My job is to cook and eat. (Another CSA member did make a visit to the farm on harvest day, which you can read about here.)

All of the birds are more than four pounds, and at least one tops the scales at six pounds. I’m several days behind schedule, so the remaining birds have been placed in the freezer. I’m a little disappointed that I can’t experience a fresh bird, but it’s still going to be a lot fresher than most. Here’s the scene when I visit Restoration Farm to pick up my share:

I am conflicted on how to best prepare this first taste of farm-raised chicken. At one point, I’ve got piles of cookbooks open as I pour over recipes and preparation techniques.

I become slightly alarmed when I read a passage from Julia Child advising against broiler chickens for certain recipes because they are too young. This makes them unsuitable for long cooking times because the flesh is too tender. I’ve had enough culinary failures lately. It’s been so bad I’m lucky nobody’s told me to pack up my knives and go home. I can’t afford to mess this one up. I consult some top culinary experts. They are unanimous in their opinion - roast that clucker until the skin is super-crispy.

I conclude that the best choice for the inaugural recipe is a tried-and-true basic roast bird, which will allow me to fully assess the flavor. High heat should give me crispy skin and moist, tender meat. I can play with other preparation methods throughout the summer.

The feast is scheduled for a leisurely Sunday afternoon, giving ample time for roasting and relishing of all those succulent “chickeny” aromas. With bird in hand, I stop in the herb garden at Restoration Farm to pluck handfuls of fresh thyme, lemon thyme, oregano and sage that I will use to stuff the cavity and perfume the roasting process.

My broiler chicken is #32, weighing in at 4.84 pounds.

I always get into a bit of a tangle when trussing. But I manage to stuff the cavity with a bouquet of herbs, a head of garlic and several slices of lemon, and even get those legs crossed nicely.

I’ve invited my friend Hal2011, a true epicurean, to join the feast. I tuck the bird into a hot oven and we head out to the deck for cocktails.

I’m using a recipe – or perhaps it’s the philosophy – of Alice Waters, who recommends generously seasoning the chicken with salt and pepper and then roasting 20 minutes breast side up, 20 minutes breast side down, and 20 minutes breast side up again. I add an additional five minutes to each rotation given the size of the bird.

After 25 minutes, I return to the kitchen to flip the bird. Not much action yet. By the second flip, the house is thick with the aroma of roasted chicken, and I hear a lively crackling in the oven. A shiny tint of copper is creeping across the breast. Another 25 minutes and it is time for the final check. The bird is piping hot, bronze and glossy. It is simply gorgeous.

There’s not an excess of juices or a lot of fat. It’s a big, lean bird (I stay lean when I eat salad, too). I use a little white wine to deglaze the pan juices, add some roasted potatoes and asparagus and we are set. I carve up the bird and plate the breasts. We could probably serve four with those breasts, but Hal2011 and I have worked up an appetite lifting cocktails on the deck.

And, what a feast it is – pristine white flesh, tender and buttery, with crackling good skin. It’s a young chicken. The taste is clean and subtle. It doesn’t hit you like a hurricane, but it is supremely satisfying and very, very tasty.

That is the story of my very first hometown chicken - locally grown, tended with care at Restoration Farm and ardently devoured. Simply divine from the farm to my table.

©2011 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Bird in the Hand with a Dash of Salt and Pepper

I was a fussy child. I did not like bones with my chicken.

This presented a problem. For a family of six on a budget, boneless chicken breasts were rarely an option. Chicken was typically served in pieces, bone-in, Shake ‘n Bake style. After all, we were growing up in the heart of suburban Long Island. I must admit, it was not my favorite meal. I would push the meat around the plate and whine a bit. It was not exactly what you’d describe as quality time at the dinner table.

Mind you, I didn’t dislike chicken – far from it. I longed for those Sunday dinners when my mother would roast a whole chicken, and I could eat the thinly carved breast slices that my dad would fan across the platter. Even then, suburban ingenuity defined the meal. A pop-up button, inserted into the breast of the “Oven Stuffer Roaster” would signal that the bird was done. If we were lucky, there would be bread stuffing as well, usually made with Pepperidge Farm bread crumbs.

As an adult, I clung vehemently to my independence, and my ability to eat boneless chicken breasts no matter the cost. It didn’t matter if the rent money was tight, I would spend the extra cash for boneless chicken breasts.

It was only long after when I started classes at the French Culinary Institute in 2005 did I learn that roasting a whole chicken was considered an epicurean art form.

Indeed, in the memoir, My Life in France, Julia Child muses on the romance of a roasted chicken:

“Oh, those were such fine, fat, full-flavored birds from Bress – one taste, and I realized that I had long ago forgotten what real chicken tasted like.”

The French Chef goes so far as to make roasted chicken a requirement of culinary proficiency: “But my favorite remained the basic roast chicken. What a deceptively simple dish. I had come to believe that one can judge the quality of a cook by his or her roast chicken. Above all, it should taste like chicken: it should be so good that even a perfectly simple, buttery roast should be a delight.”

For some reason, I always found the idea of preparing a roast chicken intimidating. It was our instructor, Chef Candy – in her practical and authoritative way – who got me to relax about roasting. Even the FCI’s signature chicken recipe, Poulet Roti Grand-mere or “Grandmother’s Roast Chicken” inspired thoughts of a simpler life of sensual pleasure. Chef Candy carefully walked us through each step: removing the wishbone, trimming the wings, and trussing the bird so that the breast is plump and cooks evenly. We learned how to trim the leg bone, French style, and cut the breast on a bias.

Maybe it is the dark days of February that demand some homespun warmth, or the somewhat disconcerting feeling that the wonderful, exhilarating time spent learning at the French Culinary Institute is now three years past. Whatever the reason, I have become obsessed with thoughts of trussing and roasting a chicken.

I consult Alice Water’s “The Art of Simple Food,” and the technique could not be more poetic – one chicken, about four pounds, seasoned with salt and pepper. Stuffing the cavity of the bird with bundles of fresh thyme, sage and marjoram perfumes the meat. Waters recommends, if possible, that you season the bird a day or two ahead and refrigerate allowing the salt and pepper to penetrate the meat.

My trussing skills are rusty and several times, the twine slithers from my hands. But, eventually, perseverance pays off and I wrestle the roaster into submission. It is tied into a taut, tidy package and placed in the refrigerator.

On the afternoon of roasting, the chicken must sit out for about an hour before cooking. A chilled bird will not roast evenly. The oven is a searing 400 degrees. The directions are elementary – roast 20 minutes with breast side up, 20 minutes breast side down, and finish roasting 20 minutes up.

The oven sizzles with anticipation, and the chicken breast acquires a lustrous, golden hue. That hot, buttery aroma – so beloved by Julia and now dressed with sprightly herbs – permeates my kitchen.

My carving skills have endured the years and the tender, luscious meat peels from the frame. I French the bone and arrange several pieces on the plate, topped by an amber reduction prepared from pan drippings deglazed with white wine and chicken stock.

Make no bones about it. Accompanied with a glass of white Bordeaux, the roast chicken is a meal of supreme comfort and elegance.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved