Ok, so really we’re talking about Andrea here (I eschew all forms of domestication). But as I’m always up for a learning experience - or a chance to ridicule – I had no problem being a party to Andrea’s domestication that resulted in her cooking two whole chickens (and they were quite good).
You’ve already heard about the little experiment with hot oil and cold water that resulted in a mini-explosion and ultimately a good meal. And now we can talk about “stuffing the chicken,” That’s what she said!
Let’s get this out of the way real quick though. I am a “That’s what she said,” champ. So anytime you read over something on here that merits a “that’s what she said,” I will have been one step ahead of you. To prove it, I will use a (*) to prove it to you.
Now, let’s get to the story!
I was sitting at home minding my own business this evening (i.e. I was watching Twilight while reading The Three Musketeers – I’m good like that – and simultaneously daydreaming about either moving to Forks and finding a nice, handsome vampire to stalk me or being transported back to the time of the Sun King and pre-Revolutionary France when men were swashbucklers and so damn hot-looking with those fencing swords. And I need to buy a new copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel…mine has walked off).
Andrea comes in from a long day of work (Spring break for the kiddies means no evening meetings this week for me!) and unloads an armful of goodies. She begins banging away in the kitchen – a surefire sign that my help is not only needed but required – so I disentangle myself from my midnight trysts with D’Artagnan, turn the volume up on Twilight, and head into the kitchen to help her out.
“What are you making?” I naively ask. You’ll see why here in a second.
“Chickens,” she says and I direct my attention to the sink where two whole chickens are chilling in the there.
“Nice,” I say. “So…what are you doing?”
“I’m going to stuff this, Erin,”*
********* (God, that works so much easier than just coming out saying ‘that’s what she said’)
“God, I hate you,” Andrea says after I’ve properly made fun of her and pretty much beaten my favorite Office catch phrase to a bloody pulp.
I can feel this is going to be a special night and run out to my car where my purse is and my camera is kept. I feel some videotaping going on!
I turn the camera on, and more magic begins to unfold.
See, Andrea didn’t realize that when you buy a whole chicken, you buy the whole chicken. Breast, thighs, wings, and all of those nice disgusting, juicy inside bits as well. And those nice, disgusting bits…They are PACKED…CRAMMED into the chicken nice and tightly. Andrea begins digging, trying to remove the nastiness. The problem is that the chicken is still slightly frozen. She turns on the water and commands me to call mom.
I bring my phone over and Andrea instructs me to ask her if a whole chicken is like a turkey in the fact that it has all the gizzards and jiblets still inside.
Staring at the chicken and what looks well…this is what I say to my mom “Hey mom, does a whole turkey,” Andrea corrects me and says chicken, “I mean chicken have the penis and all that inside it still?”
“Oh my god,” says my mom dramatically. “I am not having this conversation with you,” after I’ve said penis. What can I say, I have a propensity for dirty thoughts and expressing them.
“No, no, no,” I say so she doesn’t hang up and try to get her to discuss all of the very delicious wobbly bits inside of the chicken.
While I’m talking, Andrea is pulling at the nastiness that just doesn’t look like it quite belongs in the chicken. Besides, she somehow needs to stuff lemons inside* (Inside of you…Inside of you…I need to be inside of you) of the chicken. I think about humming “Inside of You” from Sarah Marshall, but after I’ve told Andrea that it looks like she’s fingering the chicken,* I’d doubt she’d be nice to me. So I hold my tongue.
And the wobbly bits finally dislodge from inside the chicken*.
“Finally,” Andrea says and then begins scraping out the insides. “Had I known this was involved, I so wouldn’t have done this. Inger” she says meaning her fiancé’s mother, “Is a trooper. That woman is always cooking.”
Finally, both chickens are officially unstuffed.* and its time to clean the chickens off.
“Hold it up, make it dance the Happy Chicken dance.”
She gives me a dirty look and says “No,” in a voice that lets me know that while I may be her older sister, I am still clearly an immature moron.
Once the chickens are cleaned, she gets pepper and rubs it over the chicken* and does the same with the salt. While rubbing the salt she says “I’m double-teaming it*” because she is using both hands. I burst out laughing. Once this is done, she cuts up lemons to put inside the chickens and once again the chickens are stuffed.*
And after that was over, you simply make your little sauce/marinade stuff for the chickens to bake in at 395 degrees Fahrenheit or 200 degrees Celsius and…BOOM…chickens are done!
All in all, it wasn’t exactly a hard recipe, just well…touching jiblets…and insides…I can’t believe she did it for me because I’m not sure I’d do it for Derek Jeter or even Capt. Jack!
But the chicken was a definite success on a couple of levels. I got a nice little story and a very delicious meal out of it!
A stuffing like that sure left a smile on my face*
Your sister's varying degrees of competence always puzzle me.
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