I love chicken. I love roast chicken. I love roasted vegetables. Awhile ago, I found a recipe for a very, very simple roasted chicken. Since then, I have been experimenting. I have been complicating the simple recipe to yield results that I deem perfect. I’ve been playing with cooking times, weights, pots, and side vegetables.
Tonight’s compilation includes one roast chicken roasted in my cast iron skillet. It will be served with roasted vegetables roasted in a cast iron pan followed by toasted french bread.
Coming home, after a 45 minute drive in stop and go traffic is not the high point of my day. It’s such a drag for me that I often feel overwhelmed by doing the next task: cooking dinner. My husband lamely claims he can burn water, as if that’s a viable excuse to get him out of what he deems an arduous task. It usually works, though, because I see our trade offs in car maintenance versus food preparation. I prepare the food, because it’s important to me and I enjoy it. He maintains our cars because he knows how, doesn’t like other people fixing things he can fix, wants to save a buck, and I do believe he enjoys it no matter his complaints about what stupid thing an engineer did.
Generally, I love cooking. But, after an 8 hour day, navigating the 4 year olds mood swings, and then driving in traffic: I detest the thing I love: cooking.
Last night, I decided we were going to have Beef Stroganoff for dinner. Our OGC order came in. Luscious, beautiful produce. Let us learn from last year’s mistakes: order simply and use it all up. My pound of lovely crimini mushrooms… what shall I do? Last night they were turned into a sort of lamb-bok choy-carrot stir fry/stew. I had about half a pound left. What do do? Ooh, some of that lovely Taylor-Made ground beef stroganoff! Yum! Delish!
The task, although sounding so delectable is waived off into procrastination when I see what must be done when I get home. My husband doesn’t see food “mess” the way I do. He had toast, made juice and left his pants on the table. I took a deep breath and asked first for him to put away the food he used this afternoon and last night. I cannot cook in a kitchen that is not tidy. I then asked him if he could please remove his boxers and pants from the dining room table. I was happy I worded it in a way he heard the silliness. He removed them and put things away. (Note: the pants and boxers were clean and on the table as a dropping off point from the bike-to-bag-to table unloading.)
Okay, but now I have to coooooook? Okay, Stroganoff. Ketchup is the surprise, simple is my pleasure. What to do? This is what I did. Excitement mounted. It was good.