Roast chicken…

I’m a pretty good cook, even if I do say so myself. It’s been a long hard road to get to a good place in the kitchen. When Keith and I first got married we lived upstairs in a two family home. After a long day of work, he would open the door at the bottom of the stairs and be greeted by the smell of roast beef or chicken, spaghetti, or other delectable meals. Then he walked up the stairs to our apartment, where I placed fish sticks and macaroni and cheese on the table.
These days, I’ve found my way around the kitchen both for ordinary days and special occasions. Just a couple months ago, I fed dinner to over 100  at my girl’s wedding. It isn’t unusual to find people gathered around the table in any given week. Monthly, I feed a dozen for our IF:Table nights. We invite friends and family in for meals, without much fuss. I may not be the most imaginative cook you’ve ever met, but you will find plenty of honest food when you dine at my table.
So, I’m not sure why I can’t roast the darn chicken. Last night, we had our weekly family dinner. I planned the menu and purchased the ingredients, and walk through the process. But somehow, no matter how many times I roast a chicken I can’t quite get it done.
My chicken parmesan is to die for. Brian asks for it every year on his birthday. I make a mean risotto. My desserts delight guests and family alike. My lasagna is divine, my homemade macaroni and cheese is first class. I can whip up a gnocchi, spinach, and sausage skillet in record time. I mean seriously, I can cook.
But when I try to roast a chicken… it’s a disaster. Every. Time. The thing is, I don’t do it very often. Each time, I assume it will be fine. I rub the chicken down with herbs and oil, I fill it with aromatics and set it gingerly on a bed of vegetables. I put it in the oven for the recommended time, and check to ensure that the juices run clear.
And then, Keith cuts it up… pink flesh near the bone. It happens so often, we have a solution so that we don’t have to throw away the whole meal. I pull out the broth and turn on a pan, he cuts away the pink flesh and tosses it in the broth to finish cooking. It is such a disappointment.
Instead of enjoying the meal, I am on the lookout for the raw chicken that will send my loved ones to the hospital. They too have become used to the exercise. When I tried to pull back some suspicious looking meat last night, Brian assured me he’d eaten rawer chicken at my table. Poor Tyler pushed the offending pieces to the edge of the plate. Allie & Steph tease that roast chicken is my kryptonite.
So, we won’t be having roast chicken again for a while. Until I forget that this just isn’t my thing.
 I hope you are enjoying this exploration of simple things that make life special. This is part of the Write 31 Days challenge. Click here to follow along.