Statements

Years ago I worked at a clothing store with a distinctive style that I adopted thoroughly as my personal style, and I continued to shop there exclusively for nearly a decade. I also during this time adopted navy as my signature color. I kept repeating that navy was a neutral while black was a statement. I repeated this to myself, since no one ever asked me why I wore so much navy. (I guess it’s a good thing I was not in fact trying to make a statement.) I have recently abandoned navy entirely, however, in favor of black. Black shoes, black jacket, black jeans, black nails. This shift seems to have occurred at about the same time I started working from home, so if I am in fact making a statement with my clothes, I am still the only one around to listen. But I digress. I meant to tell you about my favorite navy cardigan.

I bought my cashmere navy cardigan when I still worked at the clothing store, which is just about the only time I’ve ever bought cashmere. I was dismayed to find it full of holes the last time I inspected it (i.e., when I purged my closet of all navyness). It was pretty old, and given my recent abhorrence of navy, hadn’t been worn in some time. Nevertheless, I couldn’t bear to part with it and kept it in case I found a use for it.

One day an online luxury goods company sent me a marketing email featuring a cashmere travel pillow that cost roughly a mint. I wanted the pillow despite knowing how dumb that was–and then I knew.

Upon close inspection, I determined that the holes in my sweater were all up by the shoulder, leaving me the back and both sides to work with. I decided this was perfect, since I could use the buttons to close the pillow case.

Pick-pocket pup

Before

Long story short, I cut the top off, slapped a seam in the top and the bottom, and stitched a third right down the side of the left pocket just where it would fit the pillow form. And there you go. Cashmere travel pillow.

At first I didn’t really like the color or the buttons or the pocket. But then I realized I could put a nip in the pocket and decided that it fits the new me just fine. So now I’m flying the solo skies, content in the fact that my super luxurious cashmere travel speaks volumes about me, if only just to me. Like my statement-making black jacket and nails and understated jewelry (because statement necklaces went out with the neutral navy, natch).

Naps and nips

Happy Roast-Chicken-in-France Day

Originally posted November 28th, 2012

So I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving.

I personally did not have a Thanksgiving, per se. But I did have a fantastic Spend-Thursday-in-The-Boyfriend’s-Paris-Apartment-Roasting-a-Chicken-Just-For-The-Two-of-You Day.

I thought at the time that I was having Le Parisian Thanksgiving du Fantastique. I was not. I know this now, because now that I am back in the States and seeing all the Christmas decorations in the neighbor’s yard and such I am like, yo, you guys, I’m pretty sure we skipped something. But then I realize. Nobody skipped anything. I just basically missed it.

Not that I’m sorry. I did mention that my non-Thanksgiving included the boyfriend and his apartment IN PARIS right? Right. Whatever it was, it was du fantastique.

But I did want to cook a bird, since, that’s what we do on the third Thursday of the month of November amirite?

So. The boyfriend does warn me that his kitchen is tiny. And he tells me “everything is different here,” and I’m like, PERFECT I CAN FAIL IT MYSELF.

Et, Voila. My very special roasting-a-chicken-in-France post.

You honestly don’t understand how small this kitchen is. You really don’t. I had seen photos and Facetimes and all that jazz, but not until I was standing in it did I say, holy cow, this is a small kitchen. For serious, people. You just don’t know.

My bathroom is bigger than this kitchen, and my apartment is too small for a full-size sofa.

Heck, the boyfriend’s bathroom is bigger than this kitchen. That’s how crazy stupid small it is.

But this is the best part: this kitchen includes a dishwasher with only one rack and a tiny washing machine. It’s like having dollhouse appliances that actually work.

Ok. So because I’m told that Europeans buy their stuff fresh at the market every day, I wait until Thursday to go to the market and buy my chicken and such. I do choose a recipe the night before so I know what I want. I pick this one.

I picked this one because I watched one episode of “No Reservations” with my brother-in-law last month and this Bourdain dude seems pretty cool. Also, Julia Child’s roasted chicken evidently doesn’t call for herb butter. And I want herb butter. Mostly because from what I understand about French cooking, it requires butter, and herbs are really just the coolest. And I feel like French grocery stores are going to have lots of fresh herbs.

So on Thursday morning I go to the supermarket down the street, and I pick out a chicken. Mr. Bourdain suggests commands that I buy a free range chicken, and I would really like to. But I don’t know what “free range” is in french so I just have to guess. I err on the side of frugal and get the one that is only 7 euro instead of 12 euro like all the other ones.

I get butter, and salt and pepper grinders, and a basting brush, and I’m like, dude, I am rocking this so far. And then I go to the produce section for what has to be a pile of the most delicious fresh french herbs and there’s nothing but chives and mint. No joke. Okay, I am joking. They had basil and parsley. Also worth mentioning: while I cannot identify a free range chicken from any others when they are plucked and packaged in France, parsley is either flat or curly regardless of where you buy it, and that is a good thing.

BUT. I am missing thyme and rosemary. And the rosemary has to actually go in the bird, not just in the butter, and Mr. Bourdain says that dried herbs are NOT allowed and even though I don’t know him I think he’s pretty smart to insist on this. While I will compromise on a 7 euro bird, I will not use dried rosemary. Mostly because I can identify fresh rosemary very easily. It’s the one that looks like pine needles.

I do find the dried herbs section and I find some reasonably ok looking dried thyme twigs for a couple euro and I’m like, ok fine. For the butter. But I seriously need like a whole Christmas wreath of Rosemary to put inside this bird so I can’t do dried. But I do find the bottle of it so I can maybe learn the french word for it and ask for it at another store. It’s called romarin. But I don’t know how to say fresh. Fresca? Or is that just a weird soda?

Anyway, I had noticed a very small greengrocer in the neighborhood and I decide to continue my search for romarin there. But I don’t even need to worry about trying to pronounce all those r’s and n’s when I get there because I see the stuff right there in the mini fridge along with basically an entire french field of other herbs. I wish I’d gone there first. Especially because the guy running the shop seemed super thrilled that I was buying romarin and kept smelling it and smiling and nodding as he rang up my fabulous and evidently very well-chosen purchase.

Does eleve en liberte mean raised in freedom? I am just now seeing that and I kind of hope that means free range. But I’m also picturing a French Revolution chicken farm where the chickens stage a coup (get it? it’s sort of like coop?) and put the farmers’ necks under the guillotine, but then I realize that’s not possible since it’s clearly the chicken who has lost his head in this case. Bummer.

So Mr. Bourdain says to remove the extra fat by the neck, right. So does that mean I also remove the excess neck?

I have no idea what to do here. But when the boyfriend sees this and insists that he won’t eat the chicken unless I cut off the excess neck I figure my decision has been made for me.

The weird thing is, I have actually never cooked a chicken, but I’ve made a couple turkeys. So I totally expect the neck to be removed and tucked away inside in case I want it for gravy. But is extra neck still attached normal for chickens in the United States, too? I don’t even know.

Also, there are no giblets inside. This recipe specifically mentions them a couple times so I’m nervous. But whatever. If I can’t figure out which birds are free range, I’m definitely not going to go back to the supermarket to complain that my chicken came without it’s internal organs. No giblets. Oh well. I hate gravy anyway.

Also, by now I’ve already made my herb butter and it’s fantastic. And any bit of it that didn’t get tucked under the skin of this chicken got eaten with a french baguette and, no joke, that was the best bread and butter ever.

So, now I put my lemon and onion and romarin in the chicken and, according to the directions, pin it’s legs down by trapping it in its own skin. Which does not look right. It doesn’t look at all like the pictures. It looks kind of obscene.

Please don’t judge me for posting this photo.

So now it goes in the oven. It starts to sizzle, and it starts to smell good.

Here’s the problem, though. I don’t know if the pan is too big and shallow, or if it’s the lack of giblets in the pan, or what is the issue. But the pan is smoking. The bird is fine, it’s not burning. But there’s not enough juice in the bottom off the pan to keep it from burning off. We had to open a window to let out the smoke, and it wasn’t even the part where I have to turn up the heat to finish it off, so I am worried.

I add more wine and more butter to the pan, but it just cooks off again. I mean, I’m basting the chicken the best I can and it seems fine, but still. I suspect it’s the lack of giblets. Without them, there just isn’t enough fat cooking off to pool in the pan.

But I can see this pool of fat and water inside the bird and it’s just kind of puddling there, and I sort of want it in the pan instead of the bird, so while the oven is open and the rack is pulled out, I try to tip the chicken on end so the water/fat will roll out into the pan.

I forgot to mention that when you pull the oven rack all the way out, it slants downwards and out.

And I tilt the chicken back.

And I’m not holding the pan, and I don’t have an oven mitt to hand.

So when the pan starts to slide out of the oven, I can’t do anything except scream “help, help, help, help.”

The boyfriend comes running, but I don’t know what I expect him to do since it’s not like he’s playing Need For Speed Most Wanted with oven mitts on his hands, so we pretty much just watch the whole thing slide into the floor.

Romarin du plancher!

I would totally have taken a picture of the chicken in the floor except, you know. Five second rule.

Also, please note the grease spot on the wall. Because this kitchen is so small that something falling out of the oven will hit the wall on the other side of the room before sliding to the floor.

It’s a good thing I don’t want gravy because anything that could have ever been gravy is now being mopped up by paper towels. (Which, by the way, I thought were toilet paper when I bought them and boy howdy was I mad when I realized my mistake. Paper towel rolls are really small in France.)

So finally I think maybe the bird is done (I can’t take the smoking pan any more in any case) and I put it on a plate and serve it up.

Notice that I haven’t mentioned any sides. We got them all at the frozen food-only store. I cooked ‘em on the stove top. Don’t feel bad about it.They were awesome, too.

I chose not to take this photo from the obscene end. You’re welcome.

Here’s the whole spread, including the gorgeous raspberry tart that I totally failed to photograph by itself, which is a shame. Also it was delicious.

Everything was really tasty and most of the dishes fit into the doll-sized dishwasher, which was a real kick to use. Might have been the best part of this whole tiny kitchen experience since I don’t have one at home—even though the square footage of my kitchen is at least six times greater.

So. That was my Spend-Thursday-in-The-Boyfriend’s-Paris-Apartment-Roasting-a-Chicken-Just-For-The-Two-of-You Day.

Bon apetit. And Happy Thanksgiving.