I cooked dinner for my relatives last weekend, however, the irony is that the star of the show, namely, roast chicken, failed. The real star turned out to be something unexpected, something that was the byproduct of the ideas jostling in my head.
There was supposed to be roast chicken. Ridiculously moist roast chicken. This roast chicken. Judy Rodger's Roast Chicken. Salted 24 hours before, the bird absorbs the salt, which is then released back to the skin, rendering it the crispiest, most tender meat you will ever lay your hands on (and I say hands because that's the only way to eat chicken).
Then for the fourth time in my life, the chicken threw a fit. It set off the fire alarm, its fat smoking. I wish I could say smoking hot, but that would be inaccurate, it was emitting-plumes-of-heavy-smoke-I'm-going-to-suffocate smoking. And it didn't taste bad, but it wasn't spectacular either, I've used the recipe many times and this time, it let me down. I'll share it with you another day, meanwhile, there are other dishes that I promise, won't have you cursing 235 times under your breath.
Like this corn soup. I looked here and here for inspiration, strapped on my apron, husked and chopped corn, spraying juices left right and center, as kernels bounced off the floor. I sliced up an onion, followed promptly by a stream of tears. I sauteed the gangly rings until translucent, added the heaping pile of golden nubs, dumped in chicken broth, blended the mixture, and added more liquid to reach a thinner consistency.
But the magic step was the addition of feathery dill. Simmering the herb drawed out its grassy, floral notes, levitating the soup to a new heights of freshness. Without it, the soup is passable, but throw in a few sprigs and it's like crowning it with Tiffany jewels--simply ravishing.
Next time though, I'll try roasting the corn in their husks first, because when the kernels caramelize (Oooh did you just go weak in the knees?) I think we will have struck gold. And why not simmer the cobs in water to leech out as much corn flavor? Or try these ingenious tips.
For dessert, there was blueberry galette, which uses I Loathe Making This, also known as sweet pastry dough or pâte sucrée. Harry Potter is to Lord Voldemort as I am to Pastry Dough. Since I began baking leisurely 6 years ago, it has always cursed me with migraines, bruises, and cuts. It haunts my dreams. It's temperamental, it doesn't like to form into a smooth ball, it likes to crack before the touch of a rolling pin, and no matter which recipe I tackle, making sweet pastry dough is akin to wrestling a bear, what's the point?
I tried a new recipe for pastry dough from Baking with Julia and immediately, my hands felt the difference. Perhaps it was the addition of yogurt, but as I massaged the cold butter into the flour mixture, adding tablespoons of cold yogurt and water, it came together slowly but surely. It's never been such a cinch to roll out pastry dough, it was obedient, it barely broke apart, it was as silky as a baby's skin. After forming it into a thin round, I dumped blueberries into the centre, folded the sides over and baked it. Minutes later, as I removed the baking sheet, a hot breath of fruit swirled around me, the berries had shriveled, it's deep purple nectar seeping through the pastry creating its own a jammy river.
We ate it at room temperature, when the blueberry juices had congealed to the texture of barely cooked jam, like homemade cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving, but not nearly as sweet, more tame, more chunky. The pastry dough was a bit too soft for my taste, I prefer it a bit crispier, but it sure was flaky, the yogurt makes a brief appearanace, lending the galette a slight tang. And the best part? It was one less thing to worry about.
Recipe here!
