Roast Chicken, And My Story

I've always wanted to roast a chicken, but few things were as daunting. I was sure it would turn out dry, flavourless, a waste of a poor chicken. And some things - most things? - I just don't want to get wrong. Either the most delicious roast chicken, or nothing.

But it was time to try. Finding Roast Chicken, And Other Stories in the library confirmed it, and after devouring a million recipes and techniques, a 1.3kg free-range corn-fed chicken was brought home. I knew how I wanted to do it: rubbed all over with my favourite butter, Lescure flecked with Atlantic sea salt (eat it like you would cheese, a sliver over oat cakes, divine), seasoned and sprinkled with thyme leaves, and stuffed with half a lemon, many unpeeled garlic cloves and more sprigs of thyme. Into the oven breast side down, and halfway through, flipped over and baby Jersey Royal potatoes tucked beside it. The warm roasting smell in the house was very distracting. The chicken came out the colour of nut brittle, and I squeezed out the soft garlic and smoothed it into the juices. I then realised I had no idea how to carve a chicken, but managed to evenly slice away a few succelent pieces. Because yes, the chicken was juicy and delicious! The famed potatoes were as nutty and creamy as I'd hoped, even better smothered with the garlicky gravy (which was too good the next day, hardened and spread over brown bread like butter with some cold chicken). Woo hoo, I can roast a chicken!