Fifty Shades of Chicken: A Parody in a Cookbook (3 page)
Read Fifty Shades of Chicken: A Parody in a Cookbook Online
Authors: F.L. Fowler
W
hat kind of stove is this?” I ask.
“It’s a Wolf LP dual-fuel with six dual brass burners and an infrared griddle,” he says offhandedly.
Wow. Boys and their toys. He flicks a knob and an outsize burner ignites with a roar of flame. A heady aroma wafts from a gleaming skillet he’s rested carefully on top of it. Is that bacon?
I’ve been placed precariously on the countertop while Blades does his
mise en place
. Once again I feel myself teetering on the edge. The edge of desire, the edge of despair—
the edge of the counter
. Crap.
It all happens in a flash. One minute I’m falling, the next I’m in his arms and he’s clasping me tightly to his chest. He smells of bacon and imported onions. It’s intoxicating.
He stares down at me with a hungry look. I’m so close I can feel the rumbling deep in his taut belly. Slowly he peels me from my wrapper. The plastic comes away, exposing my naked flesh.
Heat me, heat me,
I silently implore, but I can’t do more than cluck softly.
“What is it about falling poultry?” he mutters. He carries me in his arms to the sink. “I want to rinse you,” he says. “Now.” A strong, graceful hand cradles me under the cascading tap water while the other caresses me smoothly over the sink. His manicured fingers move in agonizingly slow arcs across my breast and the crease of my thigh.
Holy cow. What is he doing to me?
There’s a burning smell, and in my delirium I wonder if I’m already cooked.
A timer goes off and smoke is rising from the Wolf.
“Ignore it,” he breathes as he pats my legs dry. “I have a much better use for bacon.”
SERVES 4
1 orange
1 tablespoon sweet paprika
1½ teaspoons coarse kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1 teaspoon extra-virgin olive oil
1 (3½- to 4-pound) chicken, patted dry with paper towels
4 ounces bacon (about 4 strips)
1
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Finely grate the zest of the orange into a bowl. Stir in the paprika, salt, and pepper.
2
Massage the oil all over the skin of the chicken. Sprinkle some of the paprika mixture into the cavity; massage the remaining mixture all over the bird (you’ll know you’ve done a good job if your hand begins to redden). Cut the orange into quarters and thrust the fruit deep into the cavity of the bird.
3
Move the chicken to a rack set over a roasting pan. Roast for 45 minutes, basting with any pan juices occasionally. Crisscross the bacon over the breasts. Continue to roast until the chicken is cooked through and the bacon is crisp, about 20 minutes longer. Let rest 10 minutes before carving.
baked chicken with apricot jam, sage, and lemon zest
Chicken
H
e sits down at the table, and jeez, does he look hot. He pulls off his white apron and runs a hand through that amazing just-cooked hair. I think I could faint before he even takes a bite.
I’m in warm pieces all over the plate. My own juices mingle with the sticky sweet jam he’s spread all over me. My skin feels melting and soft. He ignores the fine silver flatware and picks up a thigh with both hands.
Wow.
He slowly closes his mouth around my thigh, causing clear, hot juice to drip over his delectable lower lip.
“You’re so sweet, so succulent, so good,” he says in a low voice.
My inner goddess writhes in her velvet coop, licking her own wings and breast as if insatiable. She’s making a real meal of herself.
“Yes, oh, yes,” I breathe. I want him to finish me, every last bite. I’m his and only his.
Engulf me, devour me, consume me.
He stills and lays my thigh back down on the plate. He looks troubled.
“Too good,” he sighs. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and gives a small shake of his head as if in answer to an invisible waiter.
“Chicken, I’m not the right man for you. You’re perfect as you are. My singular tastes would only lead you astray. You should stay well clear of me.”
What? Where is this coming from?
“You deserve hearts and flowers, and I can’t give you that. I’m sorry. I’m going to set the fork down and let you go now.” He gently pushes the plate away.
I’m devastated and heartbroken. He doesn’t crave me.
He’s really not hungry for me
. Somehow I have royally fouled up dinner.
My inner goddess doesn’t seem to notice at first, overcome as she is by her own succulence. Then she looks up from her nibbling to search the emptiness for something to go with it. But there’s nothing.
She calls sadly,
Taters, baby?
SERVES 4
1 (3½- to 4-pound) chicken, cut into 8 pieces, patted dry with paper towels
1¼ teaspoons coarse kosher salt
¾ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
5 sprigs fresh sage
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 lemon
⅓ cup apricot jam, large chunks cut up
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
1 large garlic clove, minced
1
In a large bowl, gently massage the chicken limbs and breasts with salt and pepper. Add the sage and a tablespoon of the oil and toss well. Let marinate in the fridge until the chicken is begging you for it, about 6 hours or overnight.
2
Preheat the oven 400°F. Grate the zest from the lemon, then squeeze the juice. Add the zest and juice to a small bowl and mix in the jam, Worcestershire sauce, and garlic.
3
Pluck out the sage from the chicken and discard. Rub the sticky jam all over the chicken parts, then lay them down in a 9 × 13-inch baking dish, leaving plenty of breathing room in between each succulent morsel. Bake for 45 to 55 minutes, until the skin is alluringly golden and the juices run clear when pricked. Serve hot and be prepared to burn your fingers.
LEARNING THE ROPES
If your jam tastes lean toward other juicy fruits, feel free to substitute for the apricot. Ginger preserves will spice it up, marmalade will tart it up, and raspberry will make it blush bright red.
Chicken
T
he ham is giddy with curiosity when I return to the fridge, but her smile vanishes when she sees that I’m in pieces.
“Oh, no—what’s that bastard done to you?”
Crap, not now.
Not another grilling from the baked ham.
“Nothing … everything’s fine,” I chirp, but she can always see right through me.
“You’ve really fallen hard for this guy, haven’t you?”
Man, if she only knew. The fact is I see less and less of the ham, as Blade’s brother keeps slicing off naughty little bits each night. There’s even a bite mark near her rump. She can’t repress a goofy, glazed smile.
“If he’s an asshole who’s just going to burn you, then dump him. But I can tell he likes you by the way he stares at you.”
“He has a funny way of showing it.”
“Oh, he’s into you. But he’d better watch himself,” she threatens.
“Please, I’m fine,” I lie.
“You need rest,” she says warmly. “Put this on. I was going to use it myself, but you need it worse than I do.” There’s a bowl of marinade next to her.
The ham is an angel. I crawl into the bowl and let myself sink into the liquid. It’s bracing and aromatic. It doesn’t make me forget my troubles, but somehow it’s perfect. I’ve been seduced by a shifty mystery man, who then dumps me for no obvious reason.
I brood in the luscious marinade. Some jerks are nicer than others.
SERVES 4
1 teaspoon whole allspice
4 whole cloves
1 cinnamon stick
1 cup chopped scallions, white and green parts
¼ cup soy sauce
1 lime, zested and juiced
2 Scotch bonnet or serrano chile peppers, seeded and minced
2 tablespoons dark rum
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon dried thyme
1 tablespoon light brown sugar
2 teaspoons kosher salt
2 fat garlic cloves, chopped
1 tablespoon grated peeled fresh gingerroot
½ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1 (3½- to 4-pound) chicken, cut into 8 pieces and patted dry with a paper towel
1
In a small dry skillet over medium heat, place the allspice, cloves, and cinnamon. Toast the spices, stirring constantly, until fragrant, 2 to 3 minutes. Transfer the spices to a plate, let cool, then finely grind them in a spice grinder.
2
In a food processor or blender, combine the ground spices, scallions, soy sauce, lime juice and zest, chiles, rum, oil, thyme, brown sugar, salt, garlic, gingerroot, and nutmeg, and process until smooth. Taste and adjust the seasoning if necessary.
3
In a large dish, arrange the chicken in a single layer and pour the marinade over it, tossing to coat. Cover tightly with plastic wrap and marinate in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours, preferably overnight; the longer you delay gratification, the spicier it will be.
4
Preheat the oven to 450°F. Arrange the chicken parts in a single layer on a baking pan lined with foil and heavily oiled. Spoon the excess marinade on top. Bake until the chicken is golden, appetizing, and cooked through, 35 to 45 minutes. Eat while hot, hot, hot.
Fowl
H
e’s back. Yesterday he sent me some parsley and a
bouquet garni
. I can’t keep up with his mood shifts, but I’m a sucker for aromatics.
Today he’s going to extra lengths to soften me up. He’s got me in a hot soak with more aromatics, plus something mysteriously piquant. It was impossible to stay mad at him when he brought me the beer.
“I just couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he says. “There’s something about you, Miss Hen. I don’t know what it is. But I find I must have you.”
I am dumbstruck by his hungry expression. Wow … to be desired by this great, golden god of a cook.
“Now, if we’re going to do this, we need to talk about recipes,” he says sharply.
Uh-oh, here it comes.
I steel myself for bad news, and my subconscious does a duck-and-cover.
“First, as my Ingredient, you will submit entirely to my control. I will cook you any time, any way I want—as the mood strikes me.”
Jeez. Moods like his could keep a girl hopping.
“What does that mean, your ‘Ingredient’?” I ask.
“It means that for the foreseeable future I will cook you, and only you.”
He wants to cook me. Blades wants to cook me!
And I realize, in a flash of insight, that’s exactly what I want. Maybe it’s just the beer talking or the way the chiles are making my skin tingle, but right now what I want most in all the world is to satisfy this man’s chicken cravings.
“And in return, you will surrender your body to my gastronomic virtuosity. You will be my obedient Ingredient—warm or cold, dressed or undressed, whole or in parts.” He pauses to stir my bath. “Or highly spiced.”
I’m still on the fence about this. “Why would I want to do such a thing?”
“To please my palate,” he breathes, savoring the words.
His voice is hypnotic and the bath has had its effect. I’m soft and pliant, and suddenly I feel prepared for anything he can dish out.
“And lastly, Miss Hen,” he adds firmly, “when we’re cooking, you will address me as Chef.”
“I will consider your proposal …” I cluck demurely. “Chef.”
SERVES 8
5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
3 pounds ground chicken, preferably a mix of dark and white meat
1 tablespoon coarse kosher salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons tomato paste
2 onions, chopped
1 green bell pepper, seeded and diced
4 garlic cloves, chopped
1 serrano or jalapeño chile peppers, chopped
2 to 3 tablespoons chili powder, to taste
1 (28-ounce) can whole peeled tomatoes
1 bottle dark beer
3 cups cooked pinto beans or 2 (15-ounce) cans, drained and rinsed
½ cup chopped fresh cilantro
2½ tablespoons fresh lime juice, or to taste
Sour cream, for serving
Grated cheddar cheese, for serving
