Chicken Without a Head

Years ago I was eating dinner at my Auntie Kimmy's house when I tasted something scrumptious.  That evening I returned home and gushed to my Mom about the meal I'd just eaten.

"Chicken?"  She furrowed her brow, perplexed.  "I make you chicken all the time!" 

"No, Mom, this was like, a whole chicken, an entire chicken?  Like the only thing missing from it was its head!  It was a whole chicken, with the head cut off."

From then on my family has referred to roasted chicken as chicken without a head.

On Monday night I decided I wanted to roast a chicken with no head.  You know, for the hubby, so he'd say, wow, what a broad, or something to that effect.  The thing is, I can be a bit squeamish when it comes to raw meat.  I'll cook it, of course, but let's just say there's a good deal of hand washing involved. 

The few times I've prepared chicken without a head, hubby has always been there to rinse it, or salt and pepper it, or hold open the cavity so I can stuff it with celery and onions and all the fixin's.

But this time I'd be flying solo.  Could I pull it off? 

I began by unwrapping it.  Shit.  I'd forgotten to get out a pan!  I'd already touched raw meat, though, so I figured I'd better wash my hands before cross-contaminating all of my Corningware.  (And so begins the dance of the obsessive compulsive.)

Removing the giblets didn't prove too difficult, since I just kept the bird in the bag and tipped him upside down over my trash can.  While yelping, of course.  Giblets disposed of?  Check! 

Now for the bird rinsing.  OK, just take that sucker and plop him under some running water, right?

"Aaaahhhh!"  An involuntary howl escaped my lips.  He was heavier than I'd imagined!  My God!  This was so gross.  My voice took on a coaxing tone: "Come on, now, little fella, I'm just gonna wash ya."  The thing is, I didn't really want to even look at it, let alone touch it. 

Irrational, hysterical scenarios kept making their way into my brain, like perhaps the good people at the poultry factory had made a freakish mistake and left a toenail on?  Or, worse still, left the HEAD in the bag?  I braced myself for the possibility of coming face to face with chicken eyeballs.  I mean, accidents do happen...

Within the next several minutes I was reduced to a squeamish, babbling nutcase.  Kittie proved to be little help, though she appeared to want to assist.  At this juncture, however, I needed a human. 

I called Sissy.  I tried my best to dial her on speaker with minimal touching of the phone, since my fingers were covered in raw meat juice and by this point I'd already washed them with anti-bacterial soap five times.

Thank God she was home.  Sissy's voice wafted happily into my kitchen: "Hi, Sister!" 

In a manner most desperate, I bent over and stuck my face into the phone, my arms spread out slightly above my head like I was at a religious revival and had just found Jesus.  "Sissy, I need your help!  I'm trying to roast a chicken and I need to wash it and stuff it and I'm freaking out.  Could you just stay on the phone with me for a sec while I do it?"

I'd like to say it did take two seconds, but of course that would be untrue.

For whatever weird reason, I was stalling.  And my speech was becoming increasingly mental.  "OK, let me just plop this birdie in the sink here and Aaaaaahhhhhh!"  At one point I wondered how the neighbors were interpreting my high pitched monologue.  Ah, who gave a good crap, I had bigger fish to fry.  (Or birds to roast, rather.)

After a while, Sissy became impatient.  (The girl is seven months pregnant, after all.)  "Come on, just wash it!  What's the big deal?"

I continued with my deranged chanting: "OK, sorry birdie, you've never done anything to me...OK, here I go now, eeeekk!!!"  I let rip every expletive I'd ever known.  (And a few I never knew I did.)

"You're acting crazy,"  my elder sister informed me, before leaving with her husband to pick their car up from the shop.  Once again we were on our own.  It was just me, Kittie, and a chicken with no head. 

Eventually, I rinsed the bird.  I stuffed the bird.  I rubbed the bird with olive oil, salt and pepper, the entire time apologizing aloud in a manner most psychotic.  For a moment, my squeamishness subsided as I tried to fit just one more slice of onion into the cavity when I suddenly realized I was zealously clutching the poor bird's leg.  "Ahhhhh!!!!!  What the!!!!" 

By the time Hubby got home, the 375 degree oven had turned our apartment into a sweltering inferno, but at least chicken without the head was ready to be eaten.  Aware that my Martha Stewart persona had gone completely down the toilet, Hubby decided to cut some slices for us.  We soon discovered, however, something very unusual...

Hey, where was all the meat?  This bird ain't gut no meat! 

"Oh, I see!"  Hubby calmly flipped the chicken over.  "There's tons of meat on this side!"

Yeah, apparently I'd roasted the frigging thing upside down.  So shoot me. 

I have to admit, my first solo run proved to be very tasty and quite succulent, once we'd found where all the meat was hiding, of course.  I tasted a piece of the skin and marveled aloud at what a superb job I'd done on my chicken without a head.  Then guilt overcame me as I remembered all we'd been through together: our walk home from Key Food, the rinsing, the stuffing, the roasting...  But still, I ate.  After all, I think it's what birdie probably would have wanted.

In closing, Dear Reader, if you suddenly find yourself with a hankering for chicken without a head, here's what I stuffed mine with:

Fresh sprigs of rosemary, sage and thyme, some lemon wedges, a whole head of garlic, some slices of onion and celery, and salt and pepper.  On the outside, slather on some olive oil, salt and pepper.  Roast it.  Baste it.  Eat it.  (But don't forget to place birdie right side up on the pan or you may have a breakdown and have to cry for a moment, like your friend the Odd Broad did, Monday night.)

Happy eating! xoxo

Comments

[Weinerdog]

If you go to video jug there's a whole special recipe for cooking the chicken upside down!

Oh, I also didn't know you were supposed to wash the bird first.......oopsy!

[The Odd Broad]

I had no idea, either! I think it's just a quick rinse more than a wash.

[Amy]

I like to exfoliate mine in the shower.

[The Odd Broad]

Trader Joe's has a nice Grapefruit exfoliator...

[Sissy]

You were being totally irrational and my patience was really wearing thin. Here's a good idea for next time....buy an already cooked rotisserie chicken at the store.

[The Odd Broad]

I know, I know, I know. But it's kind of fun to roast my own chicken. And it's so much tastier than the store bought ones. This was one juicy bird.