frankenchicken

The last three days I have been covered in chickenfat and olive oil. Not too exciting, I have been teaching a poultry lab at my cuisine class. Chicken is on sale, and I decided the students needed to know about the parts of a chicken, how to prepare a whole one, and to part it out. Their assignment is to create a recipe with sides and garni for their one chicken leg. I taught and demo'ed how to truss, and today made a whole chicken for them to see, and carve.

They had to skin the leg. Holding the leg up and pulling the skin off, it appeared that I had created a wired biology lab with students skinning aliens, treating the discarded skin as a distasteful jelly sample. These are students who hunt and shoot but no hunters here, it was all"oooh, yuk." One adventurous scavenger saved all the skin to make mini crispy skins for his cat to eat. Despite my best goals, the chicken had vestiges of feathers. We live down wind, an unfortunate occurrence, from a chicken plant. When they treat the feathers, well, sucking on a lemon drop helps but not much.

I had purchased enough chicken legs for the students, 17. They come 9-11 to a pack, never an even number. And the two whole chickens had random giblets and necks thrown in. Reassembling these frankenchickens had me imagining bi-polar lopsided birds tottering around the lot. Differently matched legs, like a woman wearing a stiletto and a flat, uneven arm lengths, and the random transplanted heart created a Tim Burton garish landscape in my mind. Edward Scissorchicken, Franken chicken, the curse of the werechicken...

I am now sick of chicken. It tastes like, well, chicken! Where is the venison, succulent and reminding me of hunting in Nevada through the juniper and pinion pine frosty mornings? Where is the carpaccio, thin sliced and layered with extra virgin olive oil and shaved pecorrino? Or, duck! Now duck would be great! Crisp, glazed with soy sauce and baked in rock salt, or basted with pomegranate molasses. I would like duck for a change.

Nope, I am still in chicken hell. We are "doing" chicken next week in tamales, enchiladas, and fajitas. And, chicken soup with all the oddly mis matched bones.


I like the beasts, I admire them, they don't ask too much but I can always count on a chicken. Baking a chicken on Sunday for a lazy afternoon makes my home smell great, I can part it out and pick off it all week by myself and feel nourished. SInce moving into my own home I have made a whole chicken often for economy and a sense of self nourishment. I can do so much with chicken, but in the classroom I can only do so much. MY students, budding epicures, do not go in for pomegranate molasses, or stuffing under the skin with truffle butter, or 40 cloves of garlic. And,if I hear about the beer butt chicken one more time I will throw one in the casserole and baste it with Dr. Pepper.

This Sunday I will make something else to celebrate.