chicken

Always brush your chicken before bed.

Posted on by Craig Stewart

Selecting what recipe to make each week is a sacred ritual for me. There are certain traditions that must be upheld. The place? The front seat of my car outside the grocery store. The time? The last night of the week I don’t have plans. The process? It begins with a moment of reflection. I look at myself in the rearview mirror and say, “Next week I’ll prepare better. Next week I’ll do all of my shopping ahead of time. Next week I’ll have the guts to wear a cowboy hat to work.” It never happens.

Then I travel inward and seek answers to the great unknown questions. “Am I out of butter? Whatever I’ll just but more anyway because I’m a consumer whore. Are vegetable and canola oil different? I think I have one of those at home right now, it’ll probably work. Where the hell do you even buy fresh basil? I’m more likely to find Bigfoot than fresh basil. What the shit is tarragon?”

Then comes the final step—intensive research. I scour The Food Lab looking for a recipe that I can complete in one night, without pulling my hair out, impressive enough that it doesn’t look like I’m phoning it in.

This week’s lucky front-seat recipe was Barbecue-Glazed Roast Chicken (Page 600). It fit all the important checkboxes of a Craig Cooks Crap special—low upfront cost, already owning most of the ingredients and possible to pull off in under an hour. I’m a growing boy, I can’t be expected to wait around for my food forever. This isn’t a Bob Evans.

First thing’s first—ingredient photo. I’ve got a brand new cutting board, and it is time to show it off. So I whipped out the chicken and it…whipped out its own chicken.

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WHAT IS THAT?

My chicken has a penis. Which is odd because chickens are girls. But it definitely has a penis where the neck hole should be. This pink monstrosity can’t be a neck unless my chicken’s father was a giraffe. I’m from the Midwest. I refuse to believe that anything this horrifying isn’t some kind of a sexual organ. But to her credit, the gal’s got some length. Girth leaves a bit to be desired, but really whose doesn’t? I decided that this chicken’s endowment wasn’t something to hide away, but instead it should be honored as the centerpiece of this week’s ingredient photo.

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It’s time to make this poor bird a eunuch. I approach the procedure with all due care and respect, and of course make a Snapchat video out of removing the poor bird’s bits.

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I’m definitely never ordering chicken sausage again.

Now it’s time for even more surgery, because I spatchcocked this little bastard. What is spatchcocking? It’s not a sex move. It’s splitting open the bird and flattening it to cook evenly. Why is it called spatchcocking? This is because the chicken should be flat. Like a spatula…duh. Anyway in order to effectively divide this bird in half, just like our country over the next six months, I needed to remove its spine Sub-Zero style.

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When that didn’t work I used scissors. Less excitement, but also less blood. Kind of like when they remade RoboCop.

After that I blended all of my spices for the rub in a coffee grinder (I don’t currently own a kitchen table, why the hell would I own a spice grinder?) and rubbed the chicken down like Tyson (the boxer not the chicken), before the opening bell. Then the well-massaged chicken was off for his date with the hell-fires of my electric oven.

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Thirty minutes in, I needed to brush the beautiful little bird with barbecue sauce. I chose Sugarfire Smoke House Honey Sriracha BBQ Sauce, from a St. Louis barbecue joint that’s putting Kansas City elitists, Memphis traditionalists, and Texas good ol’ boys to shame. Now, I’ve made some bold statements before, but I’m pretty sure this is the only one that will actively put my life in danger. Barbecue is more divisive than politics, religion and olives combined. If they find me dead in my apartment drowned in a vat of Gate’s Barbecue sauce, we’ll all know why.

The alarm went off and I grabbed the bottle, intending to lightly brush the bird with sweet and spicy goodness. Then I realized I don’t own a kitchen brush. I considered my options and identified an undeniably brilliant solution.

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If they made barbecue sauce flavored toothpaste, I’d brush my teeth nine times a day. I got to work on the bird with my Oral-B. I think it worked better than a traditional kitchen brush. I could get in to small crevices. I could even get to the hard-to-reach corners of the chicken. Plus, when I was done my Barbecue-Glazed Roast Chicken had 99% less plaque than the leading competitor’s Barbecue-Glazed Roast Chicken.

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I put it back in the oven, and went through this process a few times before delivering my beautiful baby from it’s 450o womb. I’m not a father, but I assume the feeling of overwhelming pride and joy seeing your first child is pretty similar. Probably just as sticky, too.

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I understand the naysayers who will say this isn’t a barbecued chicken, and they have a point; it was cooked in an oven. But for a weeknight barbecue fix, you really could not do any better. It’s surprisingly simple and yields a tender, moist and flavorful chicken with crispy skin and sticky sauce.

And 4/5 dentists recommend it.

Recipe: 314/314
Did I do the Dishes? No.

Man Tops Meal in Overtime.

Posted on by Craig Stewart

Author’s note: Post contains picture of a bloody finger but hockey is a brutal sport. What you gonna do?

Guys don’t cook for other guys. The only reason most men even know how to cook anything at all is to impress women. The only reason most men do anything at all is to try to impress women. If I didn’t want to impress women I wouldn’t shower, work out or try to dress well. Hell, I barely even do those things now.

Barbecues don’t count. Those are mostly about drinking Keystone Light and playing games with disturbing names like Cornhole and Hillbilly Golf, and not about the quality of the food. After all, if you’re drinking Keystone Light, you really don’t care if something tastes good or not.

What I’m saying is that 26-year old guys don’t invite their bros over to watch the hockey game, have a few beers and enjoy a nice home cooked meal prepared with love. Until now.

The game? St. Louis Blues versus Chicago Blackhawks. Good versus evil. Jedi versus Sith. Craig versus Parsley.

The meal? Easy Skillet-Braised Chicken with Mushrooms and Bacon (Page 252) and Seared Brussels Sprouts with Bacon (Page 433).

Tonight on Craig Cooks Crap, it’s Man versus Meal in the Wednesday Night Rivalry matchup of the season.

Let’s check out tonight’s starting line up.

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Now, down to center ice to drop the puck.

First Period.
The game has gotten off to a painfully slow start behind a man at the grocery store who is committed to making six separate purchases, and paying for each of them via different method. I don’t know much about personal finance, but I know that this guy is an ass. I’m sure there’s a reason for his mad-scientist money approach of using checks, debit cards, vouchers and cash to pick up some apple sauce, but all it did was get me ready to drop the gloves early in the first.

Luckily, the line judge (cashier) can sense my rage and keeps the game under control with a simple apology, saving me from having to spend five minutes in the penalty box for fighting and probably facing an assault charge.

THE GROCERY STORE SCORES FIRST TO TAKE THE EARLY LEAD!

I have to go back to the damn grocery store because I forgot that in order to make Easy Skillet-Braised Chicken with Mushrooms and Bacon and Seared Brussel Sprouts with Bacon you really need to make sure you have…oh I don’t know, maybe goddamn bacon! Combine that with a ten-minute wait to make a left turn off my street and the fact that the real hockey game got underway before I’d even sliced a shallot and I think it’s fair to say that Meal has taken an early lead over Man.

It may be 1-0, but Man is making a mighty comeback in the end of the first. For the first time in two weeks I have completed my entire prep work without sustaining any injuries. The team is going to need to stay healthy for us to have any shot at making the playoffs (cooking Easter Dinner). We’re counting that as a goal for Man, and going into end of the first all tied up at one.

First Period Intermission.
Meal – 1
Goals: Grocery Store Rage (1)
Man – 1
Goals: Not Cutting My Finger Off (1)

The first intermission is highlighted by the arrival of my two alternate captain (bros, bruh) and an Urban Chestnut STLIPA. If I were a betting man, I’d bet real hockey players have a drink during the intermission too. How else could you deal with the fact that you probably look like this?

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Second Period.
The pace has picked up.

Pan too small. Two chickens in. One left out in the cold. Three minutes of hockey watching. Flipped first two chickens. Four minutes of hockey watching. Why is there so much smoke? I act like the cloud is a smoke machine during player introductions and I’m taking the ice. Why is sizzling chicken so loud? I mentally reframe the sound of hot popping grease as a screaming crowd. Two chickens out. Third chicken in. Three minutes of hockey watching. The Blackhawks scored and the refs blew a call. Chicken rage-flipped. Four minutes of hockey watching. The Blues took a bad penalty. Chicken out. Bacon in. Bacon burnt.

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Put a goal on the board for Meal.

The bacon touched the pan and caught fire like the Internet after Kanye West drops another substandard album, or his wife drops another substandard nude. Maybe it’s time to turn down the offensive heat, and play a little more defense.

I focus on the fundamentals for the second bacon attempt. Fundamentals like don’t burn the damn bacon. Mushrooms, shallots and everything else go in the pan. Like all great hockey players, I keep my stick (spoon) on the ice (pan) and my skates moving (stirring), managing to not catch anything else on fire.

Chicken stock and wine complete the braising concoction. The chickens get a soak like a defenseman in the ice bath after the whistle blows. The whole thing hits the oven for the second intermission.

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Second Period Intermission.
Meal – 2
Goals: Grocery Store (1) Bacon Burnt Like Ryan Reaves by Officiating (1)
Man – 1
Goals: Prep Skills (1)

Politics are discussed in the locker room over drinks. Surprising everyone, we don’t solve global warming, the shrinking middle class, the second amendment or police brutality with our heated discussion.

Third Period.
Like the Blues who currently trail 1-0, we need a late-game rally if we we’re going to take this game home. Unlikely heroes show up on great teams when you least expect them. Alternate Captain, and now honorary sous chef, Bryan came off the bench and offered to handle the Brussels sprouts prep while I drank beer and watched the game. He did admirably for a man so incompetent he once tried to order a Shamrock Shake at a Lee’s Famous Fried Chicken. Man scores to tie the game at two goals apiece!

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More bacon is cooked and the Brussels sprouts are invited to the bacon party, even though hockey night is totally a sausage fest.

The weird green balls don’t seem like they’re cooking properly in just the bacon grease, so I drown them in vegetable oil and hope for the best. Sometimes when the game is tied this late, you have to get creative.

Somehow, the alien-testicle vegetables turn out really well. I’m counting that as a goal for the good guys. Man takes a 3-2 lead early in the third. The Blues have scored twice to take the lead, and the chicken comes out of the oven. I’m feeling confident—too confident.

As a Blues fan I should know better, about my own cooking abilities and a hockey team with more failures than an Insane Clown Posse concert. Just when you think everything is in good shape, that’s when it all goes to shit and people get hurt. Really, really hurt.

I remove the chicken from a pan that’s been in the oven for 45 minutes and take the Brussels sprouts off the burner. I mix in the heavy cream with the chicken/wine/mushroom juices and disaster strikes for the home team. In order to move the molten-pan to the burner, I grab it and leave the fingerprints from my left hand stuck to the handle as my skin begins to melt like nacho cheese.

Meal scores. In a big, bad and burny way. I scream, curse and go to the bench to ice down my upper body injury.

The game is tied and my skin is turning the color of those ugly Chicago Blackhawks jerseys.

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Hockey-player mentality shows up. You play through the pain. Stirring the heavy cream into the sauce, I call over my alternate captain to assess the damage as I start to plate the food.

My hand is so burnt I’m bleeding. I didn’t even know that could happen. Wait a minute. My left hand isn’t bleeding. Where is all the blood coming from? Son of a bitch. The back of my right hand is covered in blood and I have absolutely no idea how or why. Good thing I’m not European Royalty in the 19th century, because my general clumsiness and vulnerability to injury would have killed me from blood loss a long time ago.

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That’s definitely another goal for Meal. 4-3 and the bad guys have the lead late. I’ve blown this game, and the Blues have done the exact same thing with 1:17 left. Everything has gone wrong.

I only have one chance to score and take it to overtime. Grin, bear it and plate this up pretty enough to make Maneet Chauhan weep.

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This bitch is tied. We’re going to overtime.

Meal – 4
Goals: Grocery Store (1) Burnt Bacon (1) Hand-fire (1) Red Wedding (1)
Man – 4
Goals: Prep Skills (1) Alternate Captain (1) Alien Testicles (1) Plating Like A Playa (1)

Overtime
I’m sidelined in overtime. Both of my hands are falling off and I can’t focus on anything, even eating. I defer to my alternate captains for a final review.

“I can’t believe I ate the whole thing. The part of the meal I enjoyed most was how injured Craig got while preparing it, that’s what it’s really about.” – Alternate Captain Bryan

“Wait, there’s how much blood in this? If I had to describe the meal in three words they would be: Damn. Good. Chicken.” – Alternate Captain Bill

PUT IT ON THE BOARD! GOOD GUYS WIN. BAD GUYS LOSE. SUCK IT THE FOOD LAB. YOU DON’T COME INTO MY HOUSE AND TRY TO TAKE DOWN A TEAM ON A HOT STREAK.

The average hockey game lasts around two hours and 14 minutes. Making Easy Skillet-Braised Chicken with Mushrooms and Bacon and Seared Brussels Sprouts with Bacon takes even longer when Craig’s team captain.

The Blues even pulled it out in a shootout, so the burning sensation in my left hand and the second gash in two weeks to my right middle finger seem worth it. I feel wonderful. I didn’t expect the praise of my friends to feel this good. I’m in excruciating pain, yet sit here a glorious victor.

This must be what it feels like to win Lord Stanley’s Cup. Unfortunately, I’m a Blues fan, so I’ll probably never know.

Recipe: Can’t Actively Rate Due to Pain

Did I Do the Dishes? No. It’s getting disgusting in here.

Pan-Roasted Chicken Parts with Micro-Steamed Asparagus

Posted on by Craig Stewart

There’s just something special about meat on the bone. It’s primal. When I eat it I feel like the top of the food chain. I feel like a hunter, when most of the time it’s Colonel Sanders doing the real work. I’ve only been hunting once. I fell out of a tree stand. I don’t think the sport is for me. I’ll stick to food for getting the caveman juices flowing.

Making Pan-Roasted Chicken Parts (Page 365) with Micro-Steamed Asparagus (Page 242) was about more than just pan-roasting a chicken. That would be too easy. This is America. You’ve got to work for your food and make all those Republican Presidential Nominees proud. Since the only hunting I know how to do is for my keys in the morning, I had to get up close and personal with my bird in a different way.

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I’m talking butchery. I’m about to get all Michael Myers on this poor little five-pound bird and chop it into little tiny pieces. Eight of them to be exact.

I started by popping the leg and thigh out of their socket. I was expecting to be slicing and dicing, not performing fowl physical therapy. Luckily the next step was more my speed, lopping off the dark meat bits with my handy dandy assault weapon.

If this was a slasher film it would be a boring one. Not Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan boring, but close. I’m not really chopping the legs off as much as I am grinding the chicken into submission. Maybe if I pull at the legs they will just pop off like Mr. Potato Head.

After the most disappointing dismemberment scene since the latest Eli Roth movie, the meat chunks kind of look like legs and thighs, so it’s on to breasts. I needed to separate the breasts from the back, then separate the breasts from each other, then slice the breasts in half. If anyone Google searches “breasts”, I’m really hoping this post shows up and they are wildly disappointed.

The back separates surprisingly easily. What the hell do I with a chicken back? The Food Lab says to make stock. I say that’s more work than I’m willing to put into this right now. I give up and throw it in the freezer, where it will be forgotten.

Did you know they throw in extra parts for free when you buy a whole chicken? I think I found a liver, kidney and a heart. I never found any lungs. This chicken must have had a really shit mile time in high school.

I am all that is man. I have butchered my bird. It took the better part of half an hour, but I did it. With my bloodbath complete I was left with 13 vaguely chicken-shaped pieces. I somehow made five extra and I don’t know how. I decide that this is a good thing, because more chicken is always better.

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Now it’s time for the chicken to go for a seaside holiday, in a process called brining. Brining sounds fancy, but apparently all it takes is soaking the chicken in salt water. This I can do. Waiting 45 minutes? This I cannot.

I filled the time by watching Frasier. I still haven’t watched Making a Murder, Better Caul Saul, or The Walking Dead, but I’ve watched six seasons of a 20-year old network single-camera sitcom. Maybe I’ll catch up on Night Court next. No spoilers please.

It’s finally time to cook. I throw the first piece in skin side down and quickly realize, this pan is too small. Other than this small issue and an equally small grease fire everything goes surprisingly well. I flip the chunks when brown and throw them in the oven with a thermometer. Now comes my favorite part, more Frasier.

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Why am I doing this? It’s 2016. Watch House of Cards or something.

After 22 minutes of watching Niles and Daphne making eyes at each other, the chicken comes out of the oven. I grab the thermometer that’s been inside the bird for half an hour, burn my fingers off and drop the thermometer on the floor. I immediately pick it up with my other hand and burn those fingers off too. Finally, I wise up and grab it with my sleeves like I’m wiping off finger prints at a crime scene.

The second chicken batch is ready for the oven. Instinctively, I grab the thermometer and burn my hands off for the third time. I have no brain cells left to lose so I bang my head angrily on the countertop.

Luckily making Micro-Steamed Asparagus takes no cognitive thinking. It barely requires hands. You place the asparagus on a microwave safe plate, cover it with damp paper towels and microwave it. That’s it. I don’t know why or how this book dedicated four pages to this process, but they did. This recipe doesn’t belong in The Food Lab. It belongs here.

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After preparing my microwave vegetables I took this picture.

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I don’t know what that growth is, but I’m starving and don’t care. I immediately added two more chicken chunks on the plate, because it’s almost bedtime and dammit daddy’s hungry.

It’s great. The chicken is crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside. All the recipe took was chicken, the basic bitch of food, salt and pepper. That was it. The asparagus tastes like microwaved asparagus, and it’s shockingly good. There’s only one thing left to answer. What show will I watch while I enjoy this masterpiece?

Smart money is on Frasier.

Recipe: 23/23

Did I do the dishes? Yes.